Man or Mouse
by Steph Marks
Summary: John has a secret. Sherlock wants to know. But this secret is bigger than Sherlock ever thought. Rated M for later violence. Eventual Johnlock maybe...? EDIT: Oh there's Johnlock...
1. Chapter 1: Observation

**A/N: ****Hello again! So this is a random idea I had a while back while I went skiing with my dad and I found it when I was cleaning off my laptop. It will probably make little to no sense until about the 4****th**** chapter but you'll just have to bear with me. I want to thank slipsandfalls for beta-ing this for me and if there are any mistakes, it's her fault! ^.^**

**Disclaimer: ****I own nothing and no-one!**

**Man Or Mouse**

**Chapter 1 : Observation**

John has a secret. Sherlock knows. He can tell. Ever since John moved into Baker Street last year he's been carrying it with him. Sherlock didn't press him. After all, the man had just gotten back from Afghanistan. He figured he would either figure it out soon enough or John would tell him. But neither of those things had happened and now Sherlock's incessant need to know everything was winning out. His skill for deduction didn't seem to reach to this secret. He knew all of John's tells, all of his habits and routines, but none of them exposed this secret. That made Sherlock think it must be big. And that made him want to know more.

He lost his patience once and, with it, his respect for John's privacy. He followed John for the entire day to see if he let it slip, gave some small hint of what he was hiding. Everything had gone normally. Well, close enough. Sherlock stayed up all night thinking, planning, and John woke at roughly seven, descending the stairs looking blearily around the room, skin clammy and sweat soaked. _Another nightmare, _Sherlock decided. John often thrashed about in the night and came down looking barely rested. He was a soldier, a doctor, but a soldier none the less, and those kind of things have an effect on a person. He made himself some tea and watched as Sherlock played a gentle symphony on his violin. After an hour or so he said he was going out. Sherlock, of course, followed. John took a long winding path through the streets of London, strolling slowly, enjoying the fresh air. _Dull. _Six blocks from the flat, just outside the new Italian restaurant on Birmingham, John stopped. Just froze in the middle of the side walk. Sherlock ducked into an alley, fearing he'd been found out. That would have been disastrous. John would have thrown a fit to rival a three year old who'd lost their lolly. But he didn't turn around. His head slowly swivelled to the left, looking down another alley. A small grey tabby cat walked into the street, stopping at John's feet and gave a long pleading yowl. Sherlock watched as John crouched down on the street and whispered something inaudible to the cat before running a hand down its spine and getting to his feet. John set off walking again. The cat followed close at his heels, still screeching away. Sherlock thought this slightly odd but kept up his pursuit.

By the time they reached the park some ten minutes away, at least five more cats had joined the convoy, possibly more. All were following John without complaint and seeming to be tame though they were obviously strays. Sherlock's logical mind was struggling trying to understand what he was seeing. Undomesticated animals acting in perfect unison. They looked almost as if they'd been trained. John seemed to either not notice or not care as person after person stared at the small parade that walked across the grassy field. John approached the fish and chip shop on the other side of the park. He turned, looked at the cats, and entered. All of them stopped at the door, dropping onto their haunches, and watched John through the glass store front. Sherlock's mind reeled. _What is going on? How can John command them like that? Does he carry catnip in his pocket? _His mind formulated hundreds of questions to which he had no answers. He mentally back pedalled trying to see something he missed, some trick that John was using on the animals. Nothing leapt out. There was nothing! No catnip, no treat in his hand, no cat whistle (if there was such a thing). The cats just did what he wanted. _But why?_

John returned from the shop holding a white paper package. The cats all stood from their spots and trotted off after him. Sherlock kept to the shadows but maintained his pursuit. He walked to a small bench in the middle of the park where he sat and opened the package. Inside were a dozen fish cocktails. He removed one, broke it into small pieces and threw it to his new companions. They ate hungrily at the offered food; again, being tame and sensible, making sure everyone in the gathering got an equal share of the spoils. John tossed all but one, which he ate himself, to the small creatures. When the meal was done they all gave a contented meow, each in turn rubbing their faces on John's leg. John had a small self-satisfied smile on his lips as he watched the cats group up and walk off together. Sherlock couldn't stop his jaw from hanging limp. The only sensible conclusion was that John had a natural talent for taming and managing felines but even that seemed to far undervalue what he had just witnessed. Cats who have most likely never been touched by human hands simply fell into line while John was around. It was like an alpha dog in a pack of rabid wolves. Sherlock couldn't begin to make sense of anything he had seen and as someone who prides themselves on knowing everything, that terrified him. Sherlock looked up to see John moving again and quickly followed suit.

Sherlock noticed that John was headed back to the flat and made a dash to get there first so as not to arouse suspicion. He arrived moments before his flatmate, picking up his violin and starting in the middle of a melody to make it seem as though he'd been there a while. John entered some five minutes later and made a beeline for the kettle. Sherlock stopped to look at his friend. He noticed the lax in his shoulders that he hadn't seen in months; a serene breezy expression softening his battle worn face. He had an atmosphere around him that radiated good will and contentment. Sherlock smiled gently. John was happy.

He returned with two mugs of tea, handing one to Sherlock, and raising an eyebrow at his friend's expression. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and dropped into his chair opposite John. The doctor sipped as he stared at him, eyes cautious and observant. For their short time together, John had certainly picked up some of Sherlock's tricks. He watched as John's inexperienced eyes scanned over him, trying to pick up on what he was thinking. His eyes grazed over Sherlock's slightly furrowed brow and minutely bowed lips. He catalogued the gentle strumming of his fingers against the arm of the chair to his favourite sonnet and noticed the slight slant to Sherlock's head as he watched his friend, dissecting John's examination with his own. His eyes closed and he sighed slightly as he took another sip of his tea.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he finally asked, deciding he couldn't figure it out on his own. Sherlock's smile widened slightly.

"Whatever do you mean, John?"

"That look. What's it for?" Sherlock pulled his face into an innocent pout, complete with wide eyes and drooped shoulders.

"I am offended that you would think I have a motive other than simply being happy," Sherlock said in mock upset.

"Surely you don't think me so stupid as to not know when you're up to something," It was a statement not a question. Sherlock couldn't wipe the grin from his face.

"You think too highly of me, John," Sherlock chuckled in reply. John grunted and went back to the kitchen to boil the kettle once again. Sherlock stared after his blogger, amazed that someone so gentle had once front lined in Afghanistan. John was Sherlock's only friend; the only one crazy enough to accept the job.

And he wouldn't have anybody else.

**A/N: ****Just a reminder THIS IS NOT A ONE SHOT! If you're interested I hope to see you back and if you're not, well that's just too bad 'cause it's going to be a pretty kick arse story!**

**See the rest of you later!**


	2. Chapter 2: Investigation

**A/N: ****WOW! I just wanted to thank you guys for all the support that seems to have just flooded in since I uploaded the first chapter. You guys are AMAZING! Here's the next part and it'll sound really weird but I'm getting there! Beta'd by slipsandfalls (love you Leasey!).**

**Disclaimer: ****Still no…**

**Man Or Mouse**

**Chapter 2 : Investigation**

Some weeks had passed since that day and the topic of John's secret had slipped from Sherlock's mind. A case was at hand and he was completely focused on it. The case was hard. Very hard. Four patch hard. John had given him that look when he went up to bed last night. That 'You-know-how-I-feel-about-you-using-inordinate-amounts-of-drugs-even-if-they-are-legal-but-I-won't-say-anything-because-it's-your-health-not-mine' look. Sherlock hated that look but this problem was big, too big for three patches. _Sorry, John, _he thought as the soldier had walked up to bed. Sherlock glanced at the clock now. _6:12 am. _He gave an unsatisfied huff as he drew himself up from his position on the lounge. He was close but still not there. He was still missing the link between the daughter and the acco-

_BANG!_

Sherlock's head whipped round to face toward the stairs. The sound had come from John's room. It was similar to that of a lamp falling off a table. He turned his ear to the door and listened. Thumping and banging radiated down the staircase, irregular and unpredictable. _An intruder. _Sherlock took the stairs two at a time. He banged on the door.

"John?" he called. More banging. Sherlock tried the door handle. Locked. A strangled pain-filled cry erupted from behind the wooden barrier. A chill ran down Sherlock's spine. _John. _Sherlock threw his shoulder at the door, sending it flying open, the wood splintered. His eyes swept the room searching for signs of danger. Window closed. Blinds drawn. No signs of forced entry. His eyes fell on John's figure in the dark. He lay on the floor, his body shaking with convulsions. "John?!" Sherlock yelled. He was brimming on the edge of a panic attack as he knelt next to his flatmate, not wholly sure of what to do. He pressed his fingers into John's neck. His pulse was fast, too fast to be healthy, and incredibly irregular. His body arched upward and he shook from head to toe with uncontrollable tremors. Sherlock flipped on the light and pulled John's eye open to check his pupils, trying not to stab him as the seizure continued. It could have just been a trick of the light but just for a moment John's eyes seemed elongated like that of a cat stalking its prey before they returned to normal. The whites were bloodshot and his pupils didn't react to the change in light. _Not good, not good, not good. _Sherlock placed a hand on John's head to steady it as he finished his examination. He could feel a small bump under his hair just above his ear. "John, did you hit your head?" Sherlock tried but John didn't appear to be conscious. He bundled the smaller man into his arms and lowered him to the bed just as another convulsion wracked his frame. Sherlock watched helplessly as John's limbs flailed across the bed. _Pin him down, _his mind screamed. Sherlock crawled onto the bed and straddled his hips, pushing his weight down to restrict his movement. He grabbed the flailing wrists and pinned them to the mattress, wrestling against the snapping movements. An incredibly violent tremor ripped through John, sending Sherlock sprawling onto the floor as an agonised scream split the air. John's body fell limp onto the bed, his breathing slowly evening out. Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, cradling an injured elbow, and checked John's pulse. Normalising.

Sherlock let slip a relieved sigh and dropped on to the edge of the bed. That's when he saw them. Long blue pills spilled out over the floor near the toppled night stand and lamp. He lifted one from the floorboards and held it up to the light. _Clear. A liquid capsule. But of what? _Sherlock searched through the wreckage and found a brown glass pill bottle. A white label adorned the surface. It read:

_Albertson & co. Pharmaceutical Laboratories._

_Doctor John Watson_

_Prescribed by Doctor Sean Stapleton_

Sherlock knew that name. Why did he know that name? _Albertson & co. … _John groaned and rolled over. Sherlock made a hasty retreat. He had some research to do.

Down stairs Sherlock cracked open his laptop and pounded the name into a search engine. He found the website and only had to read the by-line before he hoped he had the wrong site.

_Aiming for a world without terminal illness._

John couldn't be terminal! That was insane. It was stupid, impossible! Sherlock would have known. But then again that was the point, wasn't it? He didn't know. _Is this what John is keeping from me? _He quickly scanned through the website and found the address and contact number. John wondered down the stairs looking just as bleary and sweat soaked as he did every other morning. Sherlock's face dropped. It dawned on him for the first time that perhaps John didn't have nightmares about his time in the war. Maybe John went through that same experience every morning. Maybe he endured that pain by himself. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach.

"Morning, Sherlock," John yawned. "Um, what happened to my room?" Sherlock's eyes snapped open. John didn't remember?

"Don't know," he answered hurriedly as he slipped his jacket on. "Been out all night. I'll be back later,"

"Sherlock? What's going on?" John shouted but was cut off by the slamming door.

Sherlock checked his watch quickly. _8:47 am. _Soon enough. He hailed a cab and directed the driver to Albertson & co.'s main building in Southampton. During the drive Sherlock called ahead to let them know that he would be needing a meeting with Doctor Stapleton. He arrived some two hours later. God he hated London traffic! He pulled up outside the lab and was surprised to see that it was in fact a refurbished warehouse. He just shook his head and strolled in in his usual high and mighty fashion. The reception was small, containing only a few waiting chairs and the reception desk itself. The walls were bare and the lighting dim, giving the room a slightly foreboding atmosphere. Sherlock approached the receptionist and found her quite transparent. Blonde hair, blue eyes, cherry red lipstick, manicured nails, shirt cut too low at the front exposing unnecessary skin, expensive jewellery, thick make-up. Affair with the CEO. Paid to keep quiet. Sherlock sighed.

"I'm here to see Doctor Stapleton," he announced, never one to beat around the bush.

"May I ask what your business is with Doctor Stapleton?" She inquired, not bothering to look up from her phone on which she was busily texting.

"I'm a friend of John Watson and-" No sooner had he mention his flatmates name than she had her phone to her ear summoning the doctor to the reception. _Interesting... _he thought to himself. Obviously John was rather well known around this building. Sherlock had just walked to the chair on the opposite wall when a stout man in a long white lab coat emerged from the corridor to the left. Sherlock looked the man up and down. He was a good inch shorter than John with greying chestnut hair and sharp hazel eyes shrouded by oversized circular magnifiers that rested on a large hawkish nose. Sherlock thought he fit the mad scientist bill perfectly.

"You're John's friend?" Sherlock nodded "What's happened? Has he relapsed?" Sherlock frowned slightly. _Relapsed? Relapsed into what? What was wrong with John?_

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't understand," Sherlock stated simply and truthfully. The doctor looked stunned for a moment then relieved and finally confused.

"If John hasn't relapsed, then why are you here, Mister..."

"Holmes," Sherlock supplied, "Sherlock Holmes," Recognition dawned on Stapleton's face.

"John said you'd be around eventually. Sooner than I expected though," _Very interesting... _The doctor spun on his heels and returned down the corridor from which he came, Sherlock close behind. The doctor continued down the hall for a few dozen metres before turning into a small office containing, again, nothing but a desk and some chairs. Stapleton took up his spot behind the desk and Sherlock took a seat in front. "Now, Mr Holmes, how much has he told you?"

"Not a word," The doctor looked surprised. "I found a bottle of pills in his room but they weren't labelled. Care to explain?" The doctor nodded, leaning back in his chair and threading his fingers together. He stared at Sherlock as if he was trying to decide whether to say anything at all. The silence stretched out, the air thickened but Sherlock's gaze didn't waver. The doctor let out a long weary sigh, leaning over his desk.

"John said he would tell you himself when he was ready." Sherlock's face fell slightly, inwardly he crumbled. He wasn't going to get his answers after all. "But," the doctor continued. "I don't have to tell you everything," He stood and made for the door. "Follow me," Sherlock wasted no time.

Out in the hall the doctor turned left and led Sherlock down a maze of corridors. He made a mental map to be filed away in his mind palace for future reference. All the corridors were the same; white walls running along white tiled floors with white doors and no windows. It seemed… sterile. Sherlock felt slightly uncomfortable despite his experience in hospitals, labs and morgues. This felt like something different. This felt like a prison. The doctor stopped in front of one of the now very familiar doors. The tag on the front read _John H. Watson._

"You must understand, Mr Holmes," Stapleton said carefully, watching the detective's reaction. "John is only brought here during his relapses. It has been almost five years since the last one," Sherlock still didn't understand what Stapleton meant by 'relapses'. He hadn't explained anything and Sherlock wanted his answers. The need to know what that missing link was in John's life burned in Sherlock as strongly as it had the first day that he walked into his lab. Sherlock could see the secret swelling beneath the surface. A detail that he couldn't read or something that he would discover the more time he spent with the military doctor but it was something he didn't know. Sherlock found out everything. Some things just took longer than others. Stapleton unlocked the door with a key around his neck and pushed it open. _Strange, _Sherlock thought, _he keeps the key to this door close to him and away from the others hanging from his belt. John is definitely popular around here. _Sherlock stepped inside. His fists clenched into balls, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. In front of him was a small lab table covered with beakers and flasks. Computer monitors showed blood test results and DNA analysis reports. But that wasn't what caught his attention. On the other side of the room was a long glass observation window that looked into a white padded room. The walls, floor and glass where covered in claw marks. They were too big to be a dogs and too wide to be a humans. Sherlock's best guess would have been some species of large cat.

"What is this place?" Sherlock asked as he approached the glass.

"A containment room. This is where John goes when he relapses," Sherlock snapped back to look at the doctor. "It's to protect other people as much as it is him."

"John's a doctor. He couldn't hurt a fly," Sherlock was desperate to defend his friend, to prove to this man that John wasn't the person they seemed to think he was. John was kind, gentle, quiet. This cage looked as if it were made to contain a monster.

"Mr Holmes, this cage isn't to contain John,"

"Then what?"

"His inner beast,"

**A/N: ****Hi all! Thanks for reading this far. I hope I keep your interest until the end! The next one should be up same time next week! See you!**


	3. Chapter 3: Contemplation

**A/N: Hi guys! me again. I just wanted to say thanks for the amazing support that you've been giving for this story. It means a lot. Just so you know, the drug in this chapter? Completely fictional. I think if something that amazing were invented, we'd have heard. So, yeah. Have fun!**

**Disclaimer: I bloody wish!  
**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 3: Contemplation**

Sherlock lay in his usual spot on the lounge, his fingers steepled neatly on his lips. Thoughts coursed through his brain; thoughts and questions but few answers. His visit to Doctor Stapleton had not provided him with the information he required, however it had answered the most pressing of his questions. For that he was grateful. _John isn't terminal. _Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. At least that was one possibility he could cross off his ever growing list. _But the room... _The room, the room! That was what had truly confused the detective. What was it for? It appeared as a cage but Stapleton had denied this possibility. What were the claw marks? They were utterly baffling in themselves! They appeared to be caused by some form of wild animal but Stapleton had also said that John went into that room… _His inner beast. _Sherlock ruffled his hair and pulled himself up. What did they mean? Those three little words; so innocuous, so minuscule, yet they taunted the detective every waking moment. He couldn't stop wondering, couldn't stop seeking, until he knew.

The door to flat banged open, making Sherlock jump. John was stumbling into the flat dragging a cluster of white shopping bags. He deposited them in the kitchen before looking over at his flatmate and asking, "So where'd you go running off to then?" Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, for the first time in his life, not knowing what lie to use. Not the truth, surely. Something clever, something like…

"Lestrade needed my assistance with something rather urgently. I couldn't afford to wait for you to dress, John," he said, hoping to whatever was up there that he was convincing. John narrowed his eyes at him, clearly doubtful, but said nothing as he turned back to put away the groceries. Sherlock watched him thoughtfully.

What could happen during these 'relapses' that Stapleton would even consider putting someone like John in a cage? No matter how much he denied it, it was clear to Sherlock, as it would be to anyone else, that is indeed what it was. John was the type of person to willingly saw his own arm off before killing someone innocent. It was just who he was and nothing, not some medical condition or witnessing it himself, would ever convince him otherwise. He looked up at the smaller man as he struggled to put a jar fermented fruit onto the top shelf of the cupboard. After as further three minutes of silent observation, Sherlock hauled himself off the couch, snatching the jar from John's hand to see that it was, in fact, blueberry jam. John looked momentarily stunned as Sherlock placed the jar on the shelf and held out his hand for the next. He recovered quickly and handed over a canister of tealeaves, watching the tall detective with envy. When the last of the groceries were stored, Sherlock fell into his chair, watching John as he took a place on the lounge and opened his laptop. He closed his eyes and listened to the slow _tap tap tap _of the doctor's finger on the keyboard as he pecked out a blog entry complaining that Sherlock had had a case and gone off without him. A small smile pulled at the edges of his lips. He thought briefly about how disappointed he knew John was that he hadn't tagged along. He loved working cases with Sherlock though he'd never say it aloud. And Sherlock had noticed that John watched. No, not watched. Observed. Sherlock had told John not to simply look, but to observe, and that was exactly what he did. The doctor had already picked up a number of Sherlock's tricks; body language, basic deduction. Just little things, but he was learning and, for some reason, that made Sherlock happy.

He glanced over at the army doctor, his smile widening. John had fallen asleep; sitting upright in his chair with his laptop perched precariously on the edges of his knees. He just looked… at ease. He needed the rest after-

Sherlock blinked to bury the memory. He didn't want to remember the pain that seared across John's face or the strangled cry of agony that tore through the wrecked-

An idea hit him. Sherlock scrambled up the stairs as quietly as he could to John's room. The door still hung off its hinges, pieces of glass still glittered on the floor. And blue pills still nestled in the beige carpet. He lifted three from the debris, stuffing them into the pocket of his suit jacket. _That should be enough, _he thought as he headed downstairs. Sherlock checked that John was still asleep before swinging on his favoured black long coat and striding down onto the street to hail a cab.

The ride to St Bart's took almost a half hour. The traffic was unusually heavy considering the time of day. He pushed through the doors and found his way to the lab where Molly Hooper sat ever presently at a desk, no doubt working on something for Lestrade. He gave her a brief 'hello' before heading to the microscope and setting up his experiment. Sherlock pulled the capsules from his pocket, stabbing one with a needle, extracting the contents and deposited it on a slide. The second he placed in a test tube and set a machine to analyse it for a number of marks that would tell him it's function. The last he emptied into a petri dish, handing it over to Molly and asked her to figure out what it was.

"Why?" she asked "Are you and John working another case?" Sherlock cringed slightly.

"Not John. Just me," he answered simply.

"But you too are always together," she seemed confused by the fact that Sherlock was alone. They weren't always together were they? Sherlock had worked plenty of cases without John! Though… not since they'd met. How many had he worked alone these last two years? Four? Three? Less? Sherlock sighed. Why did it matter? "Did you two get in a fight?"

That snapped Sherlock's attention from the microscope.

"What makes you say that?"

"Um, I-I just… you know…" She stuttered, looking away in embarrassment.

"Clearly I don't or I wouldn't have asked,"

"W-well, he's not here a-and you are and he doesn't… like being left out of your cases?" she seemed a little caught out by the question. Sherlock cocked his head at her response. It seemed so simple in her mind but in Sherlock's, he was invading the privacy of his best friend because he simply didn't know his secret. Then there was the matter of the room…

"John just wasn't interested in this case," he lied as he turned away from Molly and back to the microscope. Molly didn't say anything but he could tell she was sceptical.

Sherlock had been sitting for several hours (not that he'd noticed when the clock clicked over to 9AM the next day) when the machine gave a loud 'bing' to indicate the completion of its search. Sherlock turned to the screen and read the findings. _A suppressant. Yes, but for what? Hormones? Unlikely. Behaviour? Definitely not. Then what? _Sherlock turned to the microscope again. The liquid had reacted harshly when combined with a sample of John's blood (which he had borrowed for a past experiment). It took over a spot in the double helix, replacing the junk DNA. But to what _end_? That still left Sherlock without his answers!

"Um, Sherlock?" Molly squeaked from the corner, picking up on the detectives growing dark mood. "I got a match on that liquid you gave me,"

Sherlock snapped around, his face carefully blank as he asked, "What have you found?"

"I-it's an experimental drug called Phydonoglacicolfymene? Some kind of DNA suppressant. They think it might be able to remove hereditary diseases. But it has to be programed for the person and the disease, so it's really expensive. Have you found who the drug was coded for?"

Sherlock took a moment to register what he'd just been told before rushing out the door. He'd made it to the street when his phone buzzed in his pocket. A new text.

_I've got a case for you. – GL_

He sighed and climbed into the cab, forwarding to details from Lestrade to John, instructing the doctor to meet him at the crime scene. He had a few things to discuss with his flatmate but they would have to wait until later.

**A/N:**** Thanks for reading! I promise the next chapter will be longer!**


	4. Chapter 4: Separation

**A/N: ****Oh my god! I am so so sorry! I know it' late but it's exam week this week and I've been madly trying to study so I haven't had time to write. Please forgive me! I thought you guys might want this sooner rather than later so it hasn't been Beta'd. Apologies for any and all mistakes. Feel free to point them out.**

**On with the show!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 4: Separation**

Sherlock's cab arrived first. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, momentarily surprised at the lack of activity before noticing the blockade a few meters back, the sprawling reporters and civilians eager to get a good story. A smile tugged at his lips as he noticed the single officer trying to hold them all back. He found the struggle mildly amusing. He hadn't a clue why. The smile slipped from his lips. _Why, indeed… _he thought to himself. He hadn't long to consider it before Sargent Donovan was in his ear again.

"Oi, Freak! We're all waiting on you!" she called from her spot behind the police line. Sherlock inwardly sighed, deciding that it wasn't worth his time to mention her ex-husband showing up and charming her out of her trousers. Instead he walked silently passed her, under the tape and into the dirty alley, one of which he had become more than familiar with since he started working with the Yard.

Sherlock found Lestrade standing next to a blood stained sheet. The first thing he noticed, of course, was the size. It was far too small. There wasn't enough height to the lump, nor enough length. Clearly this would be an interesting case. Sherlock crossed the last few feet with one long powerful stride before calling "What have you got for me, Lestrade?" The detective jumped, not noticing the man's approach.

"Ah, Sherlock," He stuttered, looking down at his notes as Sherlock crouched next to the body beginning his investigation of the surrounding area. "Female, we think-"

"You think?" The detective interrupted. The DI looked slightly putout but, being acquainted with Sherlock Holmes, recovered and continued.

"Well, there wasn't exactly much to go on. We'll know more when the forensics team get here."

Sherlock continued his prowl while Lestrade rattled off the little information he had. Sherlock located scratches on the ground near the body, long and slightly thicker than normal. _Acrylic nails possibly. Strong ones. This is concrete. _Scattered about the scene were clumps of bloodied ginger hair. It was long, suggesting female. Dyed, even more so. No footprints in the dirt, no other visible entrances or exits to the alley, no fire escapes. Meaning the killer came from the street and returned to the street. Sherlock walked to the body and took the sheet in hand.

"Sherlock, I'm warning you. This one is particularly-"

"Sherlock!"

Both men turned to see the army doctor standing at the edge of the police line, a young, probably new by the fact that he didn't recognise John, officer with a hand on his chest stopping his entry. At his shout, Donovan jumped in and informed the new recruit of John's role with the Yard. The young man, reluctantly, held the tape up to allow John in. He ran down to join his flatmate and the Detective Inspector who both gave a brief nod of welcome.

"What have I missed then?"

"Perfect timing, John. We were just about to look at the body," Sherlock informed as he threw the sheet that was still clutched in his hand back to reveal everything but the feet of the victim.

Sherlock heard John gasp and gag next to him but it didn't really register as he stooped to get a closer look. It was a strange sight to say the least. The body had been torn to pieces. The torso was in ribbons, the organs visible or missing, and the face unrecognizable. Long deep scratches were furrowed into the arms and legs. The left of the former was broken in at least four places and the right of the latter completely detached from the main carcass. It was far from the most gruesome thing Sherlock had seen but it definitely made the top ten. He tilted his head to the side and saw another tuft of hair in amongst the ruined flesh. He snatched an evidence bag from Lestrade and pulled a pair of tweezers from his coat pocket. He gently removed as much of the hair as he could. Sherlock looked at it in the light. It was definitely not that of their victim. This sample was a dark dirty blonde. _Perhaps our killer? _Sherlock rose and handed the bag to the DI.

"You were right to suspect a woman. All the evidence would suggest that but-"

"Sherlock."

The detective leered at Lestrade. Sherlock hated being interrupted and he knew it. He noticed the Detective Inspector's eyes looking over his shoulder and turned to follow his gaze. At the other end of the alley was the hunched over figure of John Watson making a slow stumbling retreat. Sherlock made a jog to catch him up.

"John? John, are you alright?" he asked. The doctor ignored him. Sherlock grabbed his wrist forcing him to stop. "John what's…" His sentence fell short when he saw the look on John's face. His skin was drained of blood, his mouth pulled into a tight grimace and Sherlock could feel the tremors cascading down John's arm.

"Please let go, Sherlock," John requested, his voice low and uneven. His hand dropped. The detective stood and watched as his friend crawled under the tape, out onto the street and into a cab. He was stunned for a moment. John looked incredibly unwell.

_This is where he goes when he relapses…_

Sherlock shook the thought from his mind and returned to the DI.

"As I was saying, all the evidence definitely points to a woman but if you look closer-"

"Is John alright?"

Sherlock scowled at being cut off once again. He impatiently turned to the pepper-headed Lestrade and stated simply, "He's fine."

"He didn't look fine…"

"Well, he is. Now, if you'd let me get to my point-"

"Sherlock, I think you should go and check on him," Lestrade said flatly. Sherlock almost scoffed before realising the seriousness of the Detective Inspector's request.

"John is a grown man, an army veteran no less. He can take care of himself."

"Right…" Greg mumbled, unsatisfied. "You were saying?"

"If you look closely at the bone structure of your victim you would find that it is, in fact, a man."

"What?" The DI seemed putout at the idea to say the least.

"Yes, if you take note of the narrowness of the hips, the prominence of the brow bone, it's really quite obvious. Oh, and also the lack of feminine reproductive organs. Though there is a chance that they were removed by the killer, it is far more likely, given the evidence, that what you have here, is a cross-dresser."

Lestrade was stuck somewhere between shocked and disturbed by what he now knew lay at his feet.

"Don't look so upset. These things are more common than you would allow yourself to believe."

"W-what else have you got?" Greg asked, recovering slightly.

"For now, nothing interesting," Sherlock lied, spinning on his heel and heading for the street. He, of course, knew almost everything. Except the killer. "Text me when the DNA results are in," he called over his shoulder. Sherlock hailed a cab and directed him back to the flat.

Sherlock threw open the door to Baker Street, calling after his flatmate, demanding tea. He fell onto the couch in his usual thinking pose, fingers steepled before his lips. This case was definitely strange. There was no way the killer could have returned to the street after committing the murder. That alley was situated on a stretch of road housing three of the most popular pubs in the district and on a Friday night? No, he would have been seen by someone. The victim would have made a sound, screamed, something! Unless…

"John, where's my tea!" Sherlock called once more.

He opened the doors to his mind palace, wandering the halls. Perfectly decorated paintings of the cab ride hung on the walls, acting as a flipbook into the moment. He passed a door labelled _'7:47 AM'. _He opened it to see himself with Molly in the lab running tests on the pill. He closed the door, continuing on down the hall. A portrait of John's sickly face stared at him from a gilded frame upon the wall. He stopped and stared at it for a moment. Pain stretched across his features but there was something more. Concentration perhaps? As if he were trying to control something… _But what? _Sherlock continued his journey. He had other things on his mind right now. He found another door, this one marked '_8:16 AM_'. He opened it and found himself at the crime scene with Lestrade. He stepped into the memory, avoiding contact with himself as he crouched down to get another look at the body. Then he noticed it. Four long slashes severed the spinal cord of the victim. He would have died instantly. The doors slammed shut.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He turned his face to the window. _Dark… _he though absently. He had been wandering his mental halls for hours. But the revelation had been worth it. The discovery meant that Sherlock now knew several things: that the killer had been stealthy, eliminating the possibility of an unspoken witness, that they could have potential military training or the possibility of an assassin. It may not sound like much but it now meant that Sherlock had leads.

"John!" he called. He wanted to show off his new discovery to the doctor. Though he would never admit it to anyone, he adored the gleam that John got in his eye when Sherlock made a deduction. It was the look of an amazed child who'd seen a magician for the first time. Sherlock snickered at the comparison and called once again. He received no answer. Sherlock rose from his place on the lounge and looked around slowly. Everything was as it had been when he'd entered that morning. The closer he looked the more it became apparent. Everything was at it had been when he'd left the morning previous. Nothing had been touched over the course of two days. John hadn't been at home since he'd left to go to the lab.

John hadn't come home from the crime scene.

**A/N: ****Okay, so again, I'm sorry. Please comment and tell me what you think, I love to hear from you all! I'll TRY to have the next one up on time!**

**P.S. Sorry for the lack of focus on John's mystery this chapter but all this stuff is kind of important for later chapters.**

**Okay, I'll stop talking now…**

**Bye Bye!**


	5. Chapter 5: Aberration

**A/N: ****Hi everyone! I worked hard to get this chapter ready for you by today so I'm sorry if it's kind of really bad but you know at least it's up right? I'm just going to throw a few definitions here because I don't know whether you'll know these words that were throw at me by my 18 year old brother.**

**Aberration: ****A disorder or abnormal alteration in one's mental state; a defect of focus; a deviation from the normal or expected course.**

**Anamnesis: ****Remembrance; a recollection of past events.**

**Don't think I'm calling you stupid or anything, I just didn't know these words until last night. **

**Please, do continue.**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 5: Aberration **

Sherlock was sitting, as he had been for the past week, in his armchair with his eyes fixed to the door, waiting for it to swing open and for John to stroll in wearing one of his ridiculous sweaters, smiling, apologising because he'd gone to visit Harry and forgotten to leave a note. But Sherlock was too logical to believe that. It had been almost ten days since he'd seen his flatmate. He'd spent the first three running all over the city trying to find some clue as to his whereabouts. His homeless network had come up with nothing; no-one had seen nor heard of the ex-soldier anywhere in London. By day two the search seemed to grow cold and, to Sherlock, very much worrisome. In his desperation he had even asked Mycroft to check the surveillance cameras in as many places as he had access. He had agreed on the condition that when they find John, Sherlock must bring him for dinner. He had barely heard a word said in his haste to find his blogger and hurriedly agreed. The cameras found John getting into the cab on the street opposite the police line and tracked it for another four blocks before they hit a broken camera and they lost him. They managed to get the registration number of the cab and track down its driver. In the morgue. Apparently, when he got to wherever John had sent them, he was killed in a carjacking. Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated with every passing hour.

And so, after a rather unfortunate search full of red herrings and dead ends, he resorted to one of the things he despised most in life. Waiting. In total, he had slept roughly four hours since the disappearance and eaten approximately 1, 500 kilojoules worth of food._ John would not be pleased, _he thought light-heartedly, picturing the look of pure anger that decorated John's face the last time Sherlock had gone days without rest and sustenance. He wanted to see that face again, even twisted in anger, he still wished it were there. It felt like an eternity since he'd spoken to his friend (the lack of sleep helped to prolong the passage of time). The Yard had nothing. Anderson had less than nothing. Sherlock dragged his phone from the table once again to check for messages. _Nothing… _He replaced it and returned his eyes to the door. It had become very familiar to the detective over the past few days. He knew all of its features; from the indentations left by John's grocery bags as he closed the door to the plastered over holes from knifes thrown at him by unsuspected attackers. For the short time they had lived in that quaint little flat, they had already obtained so many memories.

Sherlock lifted his lithe frame from the chair and walked over to the door, running his fingers along the cracks as reminiscences flooded through his mind. You would not think Sherlock to be a nostalgic man, but every so often he liked to remember something for more than just the purpose of solving a crime, dissecting it, looking for its lessons, its intrigues. Sometimes he just wanted to remember things for what they were; a moment of peace in an otherwise chaotic existence. The first scene to leap from the recesses of his mind palace was that of John's first visit to Baker Street. He recalled holding open the door and waiting patiently for the wounded soldier to climb his way to the top. He'd been thinking of how to fix what his psychiatrist could not. He'd pictured John running and thought of how easy it would be to make him forget all about that limp. It was just a simple moment but it was one that led to a big change in John's life. It had also changed Sherlock as well. Before that moment, he couldn't recall a single instance in which he had held a door for someone, waited for someone to catch up to him or shown any form of genuine amiability.

Sherlock stepped back from the door. He took in the edifice of roiling anamnesis and surging sentiment. How an object so insignificant, so inanimate, could trigger something so profoundly enlightening was incomprehensible to Sherlock. He frowned at his lack of understanding. He didn't understand many things but this should have been so simple. He knew the science but not the reason. An object, when seen, touched or smelt, triggers a recollection; a connection of synapses to draw forth a memory once lost in a mind. But the biological science paled in comparison to the psychological. Once triggered, a recollection can take on many different forms and lead down many different pathways. Sherlock was linear in mind and habit, as was his remembrance. That first memory of the flat led into the next; sitting in a chair smiling at John who was ignorant to the break-in and assassination attempt he had thwarted only moments before, ranting about his hatred toward the chip and pin machine. He laughed audibly at the look he remembered receiving upon John's arrival; that look of utter astonishment at the detective's lack of movement.

Sherlock left his position by the door, returning to the lounge to continue his solitary vigil. Memories tired him after a while. Too long spent in the past can cloud the future. He tried not to let his mind wander for too long, something which took much control. He honed his focus in on the strange buzzing that filled his ears. It was akin to a bee but more electronic, more artificial. Sherlock's eyes bulged in his head, his neck snapping violently to the table by his side on which sat his mobile phone, the screen lit, the device dancing clumsily along the wooden table-top. Sherlock whipped up the phone, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"John?" he asked, frantic. He felt slightly disgusted by the neediness in his tone but, at the moment, couldn't care less.

"Sherlock?" _Lestrade… _Sherlock's face fell, the hope raised by the sudden call crushed under the weight of the DI's voice. "Still no sign, I take it."

"No…" Sherlock stated simply, his voice growing numb. "What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?"

There was a brief silence before he replied, "The DNA results are in on that hair from the cross-dresser case. I haven't looked at them yet but Molly told me to call you in. She wants you to look at them first." Lestrade seemed unsure, his speech slowed and voice slightly hitched. "I know you don't want to leave the flat but-"

"Okay," Sherlock stated simply. He didn't want to leave, but he needed to. Being cooped up in the same room for a week was almost maddening to Sherlock's overactive mind. He needed something to occupy his thoughts before he promised Mycroft something else ridiculous. Lestrade relayed the information, instructing him to see Molly at St Bart's, before he hung up. Sherlock deposited the phone on the table once again. He trudged to the bathroom to have a much overdue shower and dress before swinging on his favoured coat and slipping out the door.

The detective's phone remained forgotten on the dance floor as it buzzed through a second routine, its face alight with a single word. _John._

**A/N: ****Sorry, I know. This was really short and pretty much a filler chapter but I promise we get down to the heart of the matter in the next chapter! Anyway I just wanted to say thanks for all the support for the last chapter. I loved hearing from you all so once again REVIEW PLEASE! The next one will be up on Friday. Wish me luck in my last exam! *nervous fidgeting* **


	6. Chapter 6: Revelation

**A/N: ****OMG YOU ARE ALL AMAZING I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH! Thank you for all the support with my writing and a giant cyber hug to everyone who wished me luck with my exams (you will be upgraded!). I appreciate it more than you could believe and the advice helped a lot! **

**Anyway, here is your chapter for the week. Please don't hate me and I don't know if it makes any sense at all… Also my Beta was asleep so please feel free to point out any and all mistakes. **

**Thanks guys! **

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 6:**** Revelation**

Sherlock pushed through the door to the lab for the first time in a week; one of the longest periods he had been without a case. He strode over to Molly with his back as straight as he could manage given his poor state. His usually tame hair, unruly from waking weeks, fell into his eyes as he stopped next to the young scientist. He pushed it back irritably muttering something about a haircut before turning to the nervous Molly Hooper.

"Lestrade said you had the DNA results," Sherlock stated by way of greeting. Molly dropped her eyes to her lap.

"You aren't going to like it…"

"Molly, it's not my place to like it."

She turned in her chair, readjusting herself at the computer. "We found two potential matches," she said hammering out a command on the keyboard. "The first one…" she opened a file and a picture of a tiger appeared on the screen next to an analysis readout and the flashing '50%'. Sherlock looked at the picture quietly for a moment, mentally running through all the possibilities he could think of that involved a tiger in the streets of London. Very few came to mind. He gestured for her to continue but she hesitated.

"What is it?" he asked half-heartedly, knowing that a simple question like this could send Molly into a rant when in his presence.

"W-well… I just don't want to see you getting upset over this."

"Molly, I won't get upset," he sighed, her ignorance of his emotional control wearing on his patience. He was eager to get back to the apartment in case John showed up while he was away.

"I need you to promise," she looked at Sherlock, dead serious about her request.

"I promise," he responded, confused. Why would this make him angry? Molly opened the next file and flinched away from the detective. He stood, staring at the screen with his eyes widened and body frozen. It didn't make sense it couldn't be! "Molly, what is this?" he screeched! He turned his rage on the cowering woman who looked on the verge of tears.

"You promised…" she muttered. Sherlock stopped and fought down the urge to scream, to shout, to protest. "I swear, Sherlock, those are the results."

The detective began pacing madly. How had this happened? He would never do something like this! Then what… _what! _The test, the test, the test! It could have been wrong! Yes, that would make sense. A mistake. Molly got the samples mixed up, that's all! "Did you run it twice?" he asked, his voice dripping with desperation.

"Three times," she assured him, "Just to be sure."

Sherlock continued his pacing. How then? It couldn't have been! There was no way! Sherlock turned back to the screen slowly, fear clenching his jaw, and look once again at the photo of the young army officer that decorated the screen. He was much younger than he was now, the lines of battle not yet formed under his eyes, the scars of war not yet present in his psyche. He was so familiar yet so distant that Sherlock was barely sure they were the same man. But it was impossible to ignore the familiar blonde hair and sharp blue eyes of Doctor John Hamish Watson. Hell would freeze over before Sherlock believed what he was seeing.

"You haven't shown this to anyone else?" he asked slowly.

Molly started in her chair. He had been silent for so long before uttering that oh so expected phrase. "No," she replied.

"I want you to keep this between you and I for now. Send Lestrade the first result, just to keep them busy until I figure this out," he said, grabbing his jacket from the chair on which he'd deposited it.

"Where are you going?"

"To find my blogger!"

Sherlock through open the door to the apartment, clambering into the kitchen where he snatched up a photo of John Mrs Hudson had pinned to the fridge. He would try the homeless network again. He would send John's picture to every police station within a hundred- Sherlock turned to the living room and, there, sitting half off the edge of the side table was his phone. He had forgotten it. Sherlock snatched it up, checking for messages. _Four missed calls… _He opened them each in turn, checking the caller ID. _John, John, John, John! _Sherlock very nearly broke the screen as he hammered in the number of his friend's phone. The anticipation was murder! Sherlock held his breath as ring after ring went by and no-one answered. The time between tones seemed longer and longer with each passing second. What if he couldn't answer the phone anymore? What if he was dead? What if it had been a ransom call and Sherlock hadn't been there to pick up? Sherlock gritted his teeth and pushed the thoughts from his mind as there was a click at the other end of the line after what seemed an eternity of waiting.

"John?" Sherlock called down the receiver. There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.

"Mr Holmes?" _Stapleton? Why does he have John's… oh. _"Mr Holmes, is that you?"

"Doctor Stapleton, where is John?"

"He's safe enough," he answered cryptically, "But we need you to get down to our building immediately. We need your help."

"I'll be there in an hour." Before the doctor could respond, Sherlock cut off the call and bolted down the stairs to the street, hailing a cab. He climbed in the back and just prayed that John was alright.

The cab ride stretched on into infinity as Sherlock tapped his fingers on the glass silently begging the driver to go faster. Why did London have to be so damn busy! He had been sitting in near deadlocked traffic for twenty minutes. If there was one thing Sherlock hated more than waiting it was being trapped. Being trapped involved the arduousness of waiting with the inability to escape. It was worse than torture. He had done torture. _Dull. Constant physical abuse combined with starvation, dehydration and mild mental mistreatment. A repetitive daily routine that became easily predictable and defendable. _Sherlock looked at the clock on the dash. _It's only been another five minutes. _He cursed under his breath, turning his face to the window. The mindless mob meandered down the streets completely indifferent to the risks and struggles that surround them in even the most menial of day to day tasks. It was almost comical to the genius; a seemingly normal person to them, a serial rapist to Sherlock. He sighed and kept his eyes fixed firmly on the sidewalk as more of the same scrolled past in eternal mendacity. The car lurched forward. The congestion had cleared enough for the traffic to get up to the speed limit.

"Finally," Sherlock grumbled. The cab driver looked back at him with something approaching apology but clearly he was happy for the extra coin he would make due to the little delay. Sherlock kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the road ahead, hoping that wherever John was he was safe.

The cab pulled up out the front of Albertson and Co.'s main building almost thirty minutes later. Sherlock scrambled out of the backseat, throwing a ball of notes at the driver, not bothering to count as he ran toward the refurbished warehouse. He through open the doors and bolted past the receptionist to the door labelled with his flatmates oh so familiar name. He threw it open and stared, panting, at the stout doctor sitting in front of a computer, looking rather worriedly at some form of readout Sherlock didn't recognize. Grasped in Stapleton's hand was the small mobile phone that Sherlock had spent the last week picturing spattered in blood and laying a ditch never to be found.

Sherlock straightened up to his full height, towering far over the small man, twisting his face into the stony grimace for which he was famous, and asked in a voice dangerously calm, "Where is John?"

Stapleton did one of the few things he knew to do when confronted with a relative of one of his patients who was acting less than calm. He put on an equally calm visage and, using his sage like patience, said, "You can see him, just not yet." The detective was on the verge of exploding and Stapleton could clearly see it. He had to give the man something to sate his growing anger, something that would take his mind off his missing friend, if only for a moment. He used the one thing he knew would stop Sherlock in his tracks. "You have to understand something before you see him. Something about John."

It worked. Sherlock stopped dead still and looked at the shorter man, knowing he was about to learn the thing that would fill the gap in his knowledge of John. As much as he hated himself for it, he sat down on a stool on the other side of the room where he could watch the doctor, allowing his curiosity to quell his animosity. Stapleton stared at him for a moment trying to decide whether the detective was truly calm r just putting on a performance. If it was the latter, it was truly Oscar worthy. Sherlock's eyes did a quick sweep of the room to which he'd been oblivious in his entry. It looked much the same as he remembered but with one subtle difference that more than aroused the detective's interest. Where once there was a glass window looking into a padded white room, there was now a steel shuttered bulkhead. _Why shield the window unless the room now contained something which he wished to keep hidden… _He returned his attention to the man before him.

"You are aware that John's mother is deceased?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. "But has he ever told you how she died?" Sherlock looked at the man confused, as if to say 'why tell me something which has no bearing on our relationship?'. The doctor gave a heavy sigh. "She had cancer. I'm sure you've been wondering why John comes to a terminal illness clinic when is in perfect health. It was his mother."

Sherlock looked down into his lap, for a moment not entirely sure he should be hearing this form anyone other than John but, regardless, motioned form him to continue.

"She volunteered for a drug trial. It was something we'd been working on for years. It was a serum derived from the Siberian tiger. It has some form of natural resilience to cancerous cells. She started to get better, livelier. It looked almost optimistic for a while but then she found out she was pregnant." Stapleton's voice wavered slightly and his eyes fixed themselves on the bulkhead. Sherlock waited for him to continue. "She stopped taking the pills and her health began to decline. She probably would have died before the birth if not for her husband. He put the pills in her drink, in her food, keeping the medication going. She was almost healthy for a few months but the closer her due date got, the worse she became."

Here he stopped and stared at Sherlock, as if he wasn't sure whether to continue. Sherlock had since focused his eyes to the same patch of wall that seemed to occupy the doctor's attentions. It was clear what was behind it but it just seemed so surreal to stare at it. He knew what was back there but he couldn't quite see. It was as if there was some fact missing that prevented the image from being made whole. No matter how hard he tried he knew that he wouldn't be able to see what lay beyond the barrier without Stapleton. He forced his attention back onto the googly-eyed man who continued his story.

"When she fell into labour, the doctors were convinced it would be a still birth. Fortunately, they were wrong. John was born healthy and happy but his mother didn't make it. John was…" he paused, trying to think of how to word his next statement. No matter what he tried nothing seemed to suffice. He huffed angrily and pulled himself from the chair, staring solemnly at the bulkhead once more. "It was the drug," he started after a few moments of contemplation, "It… did something to him. He was… different. It changed him."

"How?" Sherlock interjected. He had grown tired of the doctor's endless circle of half-truths. He had yet to give him an answer as to precisely what he was doing here and where John was.

Stapleton sighed and turned to face the detective. "It changed his DNA sequencing. It made him into something else."

"But what?" Sherlock all but screamed at the man.

"Are you ready to see him?" He asked suddenly, completely changing the topic. Sherlock needed little time to think.

"Yes."

"Can you accept him? No matter what you see when this door opens, can you accept him wholly for who and what he is?" The strangeness of the question was lost on Sherlock at the thought of having his friend back again.

"Yes," he answered simply.

Stapleton nodded his head and positioned his finger over the button on the wall. "You have to look beneath the skin to see him but I assure you, it is John Watson." He pressed the switch. Grinding gears and clanging metal resonated through the small room as the bulkhead rolled out of view.

"God…"

**A/N: ****Haha! You all think I'm evil now, don't you? Well it was getting a bit long so now you have to wait until next Friday! XD Again, you're all amazing and I love you. Please comment and let me know what you think, I love to hear from you all. I promise I won't bite… much…**

**See you next week!**


	7. Chapter 7: Refutation

**A/N: ****Yes, I know I said Friday but I have a reason. I was in the city dressed as a dalek with about 5 Deans, 2 Cas', 3 Sherlocks, 1 John and a lot of others that I can't be bothered to name. Hooray for Tumblr meetups! Also, thanks to those people that pointed out my brain deaths in the last chapter. Much appreciated! So, here it is. Enjoy!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 7: Refutation **

Sherlock stared into the room ahead of him. The glass, though sound proof, didn't fully muffle the roars and thumping from within. His blood ran cold in his veins at the sight before him. In the middle of the large white room stood a creature at least as large as the Golem but with twice the muscle. It wore nothing but a ragged pair of trousers, stretched to within an inch of their life. Long blonde hair spilled as a mane down the side of its head and onto its shoulders. A long snapping tail fell from the band around its hips, blonde and black striped like that of a tiger. On the top of its head sat two tall pointed ears, flicking this way and that as it listen to what can only be guessed. It was most definitely not human. Not fully, anyway. Curved talons fell from the tips of each finger and each toe. They looked sharp enough to cut diamond. Its back was turned to the glass but Sherlock knew instinctively who it was.

"John," he mumbled, not wholly able to believe it. The creature snapped around at the sound of the detective's voice. It could hear him even from behind the sound proof barrier. It charged at the glass, its great hulking mass smashing into it with enough force to crack one of the inner layers. Sherlock stumbled backwards, feeling as if his legs were going to give out. He looked at the face staring out at him. It was elongated, much like that of a feline, with barbed teeth, the mouth twisted into an insidious snarl, a lion-esque growl rolling from its lolling tongue. A pair of sharp blue slitted eyes watched him stumble back to the seat which he had previously occupied. They were an impossibly familiar beacon in a nightscape of vicissitude. Sherlock stared into them. On the surface he saw anger, rage, a wanting for violence, but once he looked deeper, he saw something else. He saw twisting pain, unimaginable guilt and fear; fear of what he was, of what he'd done and of what he would do. It threw itself back from the glass, stalking back and forth across the room. It stopped, tossed back its head and let out an ear shattering roar, throwing itself against the walls with force enough to shatter the bones of a normal man.

Sherlock stared at the creature behind the wall but he couldn't see it anymore. All he could see was the frightened army doctor that he would more than gladly leap from a rooftop for. He saw him trapped, more so than Sherlock could ever understand. He had been trapped in cars and bunkers and cells but John was trapped in his own body. It was a cage from which he could never escape.

Sherlock got to his feet, not having noticed that Stapleton had continued to talk. Without a second thought he walked to the door beside the window. The plaque on its face read '_Containment Entry'. _There was a small number pad on the wall. Sherlock turned to Stapleton, still standing on the other side of the room, and looked at him with the closest thing to pleading he could put on his features. Stapleton looked worriedly from the detective to the room on his right and back again. He sighed in resignation, walking over slowly and pushing in the door combination. Sherlock nodded his thanks and opened the door. Stapleton grabbed his wrist.

"He's been like this for over a week. He hasn't slept, hasn't drunk, hasn't eaten since then. If he doesn't change back, he's going to die."

Sherlock gulped back his worry, nodded and stepped through the door. On the other side was another small room. To the left were coat hooks holding various kinds of jackets. One in particular stood out. The four farthest hooks grasped bulletproof vests, each covered in deep scratches and torn to pieces. Sherlock dreaded to think of how they'd gotten there. Just below these were a series of rifles containing tranquilizers and tasers. Sherlock refused to look at them. To the right was a second door. He walked to it and pushed it. It didn't budge. Sherlock looked back towards the security camera above the door through which he'd entered.

Stapleton sat at the desk staring at the monitor before him and the pixelated face of the detective with his eyes affixed to the camera. The button to open the door loomed up at him, its red face daring him to condemn the man to death. For that was what it was. To go through that door and face John Watson in his current state would surely result in the death of his closest friend. John would never be able to forgive himself for that. Stapleton was almost certain that if Sherlock were to go into that room, if Sherlock were to die by his hands, John would take his own life. But the detective would never forgive him for allowing John to die either. To open the door would mean the death of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and to leave it closed would mean the loss of John Watson, the world's first cross-genetic mutation. It was neither a choice that the doctor was entitled to make nor one that he would make given the ability. He turned to face the rampaging ball of fur that had become of the once proud military veteran. The hulking mound of flesh threw itself against the walls, catching its claws in the fabric, ripping sections of padding from their place. The choice became obvious. He moved his finger away from the button. His conscience would be clear knowing that he hadn't allow Holmes to get himself killed by entering a cage with a rabid beast.

Sherlock's voice floated from the speakers of the computer. Stapleton tried to ignore his words but the more he said the more he listened. The detective had 'deduced' quite a lot about Stapleton, more than he ever wanted in the press. And that was exactly what he was threatening to do with it. Stapleton turned his head back to the monitor and saw the deadpan look on Sherlock's face. His finger hovered over the button.

"God forgive me," he muttered, his eyes rolling into his head.

His finger fell like a weight.

The door slid open. Sherlock wasted no more time as he stepped inside. His presence was immediately noticed. The creature that was once his only friend turned toward him and howled, his voice dripping with aggression and warning. Sherlock stood perfectly still, only the rising and falling of his chest betraying his stuffed appearance. The creature walked toward him, a growl vibrating in his throat, teeth bared. Its nose flicked up and down as he sniffed the new creature in his cell. Recognition flickered across its face, its pupils fell to small black circles. Sherlock dared let out a breath.

"John?" he asked, his voice holding all the confidence of a rabbit cornered by a wolf. He backed up slightly, his eyes straining to focus on the detective.

"Sher…lock?" John replied, his voice ragged and rough. His words didn't quite sound human. They dripped and crunched as if spoken by a tongue not meant for human conversation. It rang with the fear Sherlock had seen. "Why are you… here…?" John struggled with the words, his face creased like he couldn't remember how they were supposed to sound.

"John, what happened? At the crime scene, why did you leave?"

"Could-couldn't… stay. M-my… fault," John growled the anger returning to his voice. He slapped his hands to the sides of his head and pulled on his hair, his face twisted with pain. A mighty roar erupted from his mouth. Sherlock stumbled back into the closed door, seeking support from its solidness.

"John, John. Stay with me, what do you mean it's your fault?" Sherlock asked, trying to understand what he meant, why this was happening.

"I killed him!" John screamed, his head snapping round to face the detective again. John's eyes were once again long black diamonds in a recess of blue. "I ripped his throat out from behind and ate this bit and that and he tasted _so_ sweet."

Something was wrong. Sherlock could see it. This was not John. It was in his voice. It was rougher, more playful. It was like it enjoyed the torment and the pain.

"Bring John back." It was an order, not a request. The creature started laughing.

"Silly, silly, Sherly. I am John!" It lashed out. Sherlock jumped to the side to try and avoid it but he wasn't fast enough. The claws sunk into his shoulder. Sherlock cried out as they ripped through his flesh leaving behind long deep gashes. The creature screamed again and fell to the floor. It pulled itself up and turned back to Sherlock, its eyes changed again.

"Sherlock, I can't… I can't keep him back… He's stronger than… me," John ground out.

"No, he isn't. You are Captain John Hamish Watson. You survived Afghanistan, you can survive this!"

"You don't understand! In Afghanistan I- GARGH!" John's head snapped back and _it _was here again. Sherlock shuffled away from it, his arm hanging uselessly by his side. The diamond eyes locked on to Sherlock and the snarl turned to a mischievous grin.

"You see, Sherly, when we were in Afghanistan, the army found out about us, me and the prat, so they decided that they could use us to their advantage. Well, I say us, I mean me. _He _just sat in the back seat and cried. They let me have a little _fun_. A platoon here, a village there." It snickered, knowing it had gotten to Sherlock.

He couldn't do anything but stare at it. It had killed hundreds if not thousands of people and the army had been the ones to authorize it. They had let this _thing _loose on innocent people without regard for the real John at all. How must he have felt, being shoved aside in his own body and being forced to watch as he killed person after person having no control over his own actions. Sherlock couldn't even imagine.

He had been too caught up in the realisation to notice the creature creeping closer to him. By the time he saw it, it was on top of him. It had his arms pinned above his head, wrenching his wrecked should into an excruciatingly painful angle. Its mouth was watering, its eyes clouded with hunger.

"I'm going to enjoy tasting you, Sherly. I bet you're even sweeter than that stupid prostitute." Its tongue lolled out and fell across Sherlock's neck, running up to his cheek. Sherlock tried to move away but all he could do was turn his head, the rest of his body pinned under its enormous frame. It pulled back slightly and Sherlock could see the red glint of blood on its tongue, its lips still pulled into that feral smile. "Like strawberries." It growled low and lifted its claw above its head. Sherlock closed his eyes and turned away. If he was going to die, at least it was John. He was ready.

But nothing happened.

He opened one eye cautiously. It still sat above him, claw still raised, but it was like it had frozen. It had just stopped, its eyes wide and mouth hanging open. The eyes slowly changed, the diamonds replaced by large black dots. Then time restarted. Both hands fell to John's head, a roar split the air. John's face twisted in pain as the sound of cracking bones filled the room. He started to shrink. His face returned to its usual rounded form, his teeth straightened out and the muscles flattened out. Slightly. John looked just as he had the last time Sherlock had seen him in the alleyway, discounting the hair which had grown out during his transformation, the ears and the tail. John shook from head to toe. He collapsed on top of Sherlock, not having the energy to move. Sherlock wrapped his good arm around the doctor's too thin frame and stroked his back, listening to him muttering the same phrase over and over.

"I'm sorry."

**A/N: ****How was that? Did it live up to your expectations on John's secret? I hope it didn't turn out too badly, my beta's away. Again, any all mistakes, please point them out and let me know what you think!**

**Bye bye!**


	8. Chapter 8: Liberation

**A/N: ****Oh my god, I'm so sorry guys! I have no excuse this time except laziness and horrible horrible writer's block which is probably very evident in the sh*tiness of this chapter. Anyway, yes many apologies! Here, enjoy, please don't be angry!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 8:Liberation **

Consciousness slowly drifted back to John. He tried to open his eyes but they felt heavy with exhaustion. Instead, he focused his other senses, attempting to discern where he was. The first thing he noticed was the distinct soreness of his muscles, a sensation with which he was rather familiar of a morning, that removed any thought of movement from his current position. The second was something hard and bony under his body. It was comparable to lying on a pile of branches though this radiated heat. It was warm and comforting. It brought to mind a vague memory John had of staying wrapped in his duvet in the middle of winter, perfectly content. The third thing was a barely noticeable rise and fall coming from just below him. It held a steady rhythm that reminded John of days in the clinic listening through stethoscopes to heartbeats and breathing. _Breathing. _John forced open his eyes. He was on his stomach, that much he could see, and he was still in the cell. He curled his fingers, taking a sharp breath at the spike of pain in the joints. The rise and fall he felt deepened too.

"You're awake," came a rough voice from beneath his ear. It was not a voice that John could forget. "Good. My shoulder was getting rather sore."

John took one final deep breath to prepare for the sting of movement and rolled off of the comforting heat source. Agony seared through every bone in his body, wrenching a pain-filled groan from his throat. As per his feline nature, John landed on all fours and dragged himself to his feet. His legs shook under the strain of John's weight. Or what little was left of it. He turned to the one-way mirror. He looked at himself for a brief moment before his eyes affixed themselves to a point across the room.

"You must think I'm a freak," John muttered, knowing full well that Sherlock could hear every word.

"No more so than I am," was Sherlock's monotonous reply.

John looked at his reflection again. His eyes passed over the long pointed ears that stuck out from the top of his head, trailed down to the slightly pronounced canines prevalent under his lip and fell upon the long stripped tail hanging drearily between his legs. He wasn't safe, and Sherlock knew that, he had seen it.

"You'll never look at me the same as everyone else again."

"John, I didn't look at you like everyone else to _begin with_."

"Sherlock, don't…" He span around to face the detective and his sentence died in his throat. A metallic stench invaded his nostrils, reeking of iron. He sniffed the air, tracing the stink back to the source. Sherlock's shoulder was torn to ribbons, blood soaking almost his entire shirt. John hadn't noticed the red ocean that had pooled about Sherlock's torso. The smell flowed into John nose and the taste into his mouth. His senses were  
bombarded with the accusatory filth. He fixed his eyes to Sherlock's. They rang with… not fear but caution. John wondered why. He took another long, deep breath, letting the guilt wash over him, before opening his mouth to speak again.

He tried to say that he was sorry, that he hadn't meant to hurt Sherlock, but all that came out was a long meow. He clapped a hand to his mouth, his legs turned to jelly. _Oh god, _he thought, _not again! I just changed back! Please not-._ The thought ran out when he heard laughter. He looked back at Sherlock. He was… giggling! Anger flared inside the doctor.

"What the bloody hell are you laughing at! This is seri…" John stopped. He turned back to the mirror. He hadn't changed. The long tail and pointed ears remained but he hadn't changed. "…ous." He turned back to Sherlock who was still giggling on the floor. John glared at him and he laughed even harder. "What?" John demanded.

Sherlock managed to push down the laughing fit long enough to get out, "Your… your tail! Bahaha!" Confused John turned to see his tail puffed up from anxiety. John sighed and forced himself to calm down, something he'd had to learn to do or else he would have spent a lot more time in this room.

"That's not something you would have normally found funny."

"True," Sherlock stated, the laughter immediately dissolved, "I thought it might snap you out of whatever was going through your head. Though I must say," a smile pulled at his lips, "That look is rather peculiar on you, John."

He frowned slightly, not quite sure what he was getting at before he realized. His ears were pinned back and his teeth bared. He looked like an angry house cat. His head drooped, as did his tail, and Sherlock chuckled. John looked up at him and his eyes came to rest on the tattered remains of Sherlock's shoulder. He crouched down next to him and began inspecting the wound.

"Ever the doctor," Sherlock sighed.

"It is kind of my job. Especially when you're around." John couldn't quite see past the remains of the shirt. He sighed in frustration and brought up a finger to the fabric. His nail grew out into a sharp point and he used it to slice away the blood clotted fabric. Sherlock watched with interest as, when he was done, the nail retracted back into his finger. John tilted his head this way and that before falling back on his haunches and stating, "It doesn't look too deep but I'm worried it'll get infected. I'll clean it out when we get back to the flat."

Sherlock nodded and heaved himself to his feet. He looked down at John. He sat on the floor in the prose of a small child playing leapfrog. He smirked to himself but it faded when he noticed John staring at the crimson lake, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly.

"John?" The doctor didn't respond. "John, are you alright?" Sherlock crouched down again and placed his hand on John's shoulder. His head snapped around viciously. Sherlock looked into his eyes. His pupils were blown wide like saucers, leaving only a small ring of clouded blue visible. "John?" Sherlock tried again. He blinked and the black receded. John looked back and forth dazedly before he turned to Sherlock. His face was carefully blank. John shook away the cobwebs and rose shakily to his feet.

"When can we leave?" he asked, leaning heavily against the wall to support his weight.

"Now," Sherlock replied, eager to get out of the cage. He had a lot of questions for his flatmate that he would rather ask after he bandaged his shoulder and was sat down with a good cup of tea. He moved to the door and heard John quietly padding behind him. When they reached it, there was a loud buzz and the latch clicked open. They passed through and Sherlock stopped. He turned to look at John. He still wore only the tattered trousers that now hung off him, the rest of his skin bare and exposed. Sherlock couldn't help but give the man a once over. Or twice over. Despite his years of inactivity, John's muscles were still firmly toned from his days in the army. His eyes found several small faded scars from past injuries and surgeries but the one that truly caught his attention was the prominent pink flesh on his left shoulder. The tangled mess of scar tissue spoke volumes about what the man had endured during his tours with the military. Sherlock chose not to linger on those thoughts. He quickly grazed over the strong arms and six-pack that were usually hidden under numerous layers of hideous sweaters. His eyes fell on the V shaped crease that acted as an arrow toward the man's pelvis. Sherlock raised an appreciative eyebrow. John shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, folding his arms across his middle and flattening his ears to his head. Sherlock chuckled. "No crime in enjoying a good thing," he muttered just quiet enough that John couldn't hear. Or so he thought. John's cheeks blazed and his ears stood straight up. He turned stubbornly to the wall, trying to hide his embarrassment. Sherlock's skin took on a pink hue as he turned to the wall. He wandered over to the coat racks and returned having selected a few for John to try on. He handed John a kaki green canvas army style jacket. John pulled it on and held his arms out for the detective to see. Sherlock squinted at him. Something wasn't quite right. He walked around behind him. _Ah. The tail. _John's long tiger-like tail still hung behind him in clear view. _That won't do, _Sherlock thought, _If anyone sees that… _He shook his head and returned to the rack in search of a longer jacket. Short, short, short… not even a lab coat. Sherlock sighed heavily, snatching up a hooded jumper. _What are all these clothes doing here anyway? _

He pushed open the outer door and held it for John. Stapleton was nowhere to be seen on the other side. Sherlock helped John ease the jumper over his head, wincing slightly when his shoulder stretched. John looked down at the jumper unhappily.

"Oh, shut up. Do you want the world to know your secret?" Sherlock gestured at his ears. John frowned and folded them down, pulling the hood up to hide them. "I didn't think so."

"But what about this?" John asked, holding up his tail.

"Ah," Sherlock turned to the chair behind them and picked up his trademark black long coat. He held it up, John looked at him sceptically and Sherlock nodded. John slipped his arms into the impossibly long sleeves.

"Sherlock, this is way too big," John sighed, having known it would be. Sherlock held up a finger, taking a step closer. John stood still as stone while Sherlock buried his hand inside the pocket of the coat. John could feel the hand against his thigh. Just a brush through layers of fabric but he might as well have slapped him. John's nerves were on fire with the sensation. He almost whimpered when the hand withdrew but he shook himself, chasing the fog out of his mind. _What the hell is wrong with you?_

Sherlock held out a handful of safety pins. Dropping to his knees in front of the doctor, he began pinning the hem of the coat to lift it off the ground. Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye. He had registered the change in the doctor but he couldn't place what had happened. John seemed reserved and confused. _Why? Had he said something offensive again? _He finished with the bottom hem and returned to his feet, starting work on the sleeves. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and turned it over. The doctor coughed quietly, turning his face away from him, his cheeks slightly flushed. Sherlock shrugged and finished hemming. He straightened up to admire his work. John still looked ridiculous in the oversized coat not to mention combined with the grey hoodie. But he did look human. The hood covered the ears and the coat covered the tail. But something wasn't quite right. The way John held himself had changed. He left the room looking depleted and ready to collapse again but now he stood tall and stiff as if something had occurred to him. Something that frightened him.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked for the fifth time that day.

"Sherlock, what's the date?" John's voice cracked as he attempted to get out the question. He wouldn't look at Sherlock.

"The 17th. Why?"

"Of what month?"

"John-"

"Of what month Sherlock?! Time gets away from you when you're stuck in that cage so I need to know. Of what month?" John's voice dripped stress and tension but he still refused to look at Sherlock.

"April." John cursed and started shedding the jackets again. "Why? John's what's going on?"

"I don't have time to explain!" He dropped Sherlock's jacket on the chair and wrenched the hoodie over his head. "I need to get back inside!" John leaped at the door and started banging his fists but its electronic mechanism made it near impossible to force open. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and span him around.

"John, what the hell-" Sherlock's sentence fell short as he was thrown against the opposite wall, his hands pinned above his head in a vice-like grip. He felt hot breath against his face and a crushing force on his mouth. He opened his eyes.

Two misted black circles stared up at him.

**A/N: ****I really need to stop doing this to you guys... You'll probably stop reading if I keep leaving these cliff hangers here. I will endeavour to get another chapter up by the end of the day but no promises however! Please comment and tell me how badly I failed or whatever! I love you guys, thanks for sticking with me!**


	9. Chapter 9: Infatuation

**A/N: ****Hey, look, I actually did it! I got a second chapter up today! Woo! I'm proud of myself! Even if it is really... really short... Ah, well, this is where the fun starts! Good luck!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 9: Infatuation**

Sherlock couldn't react. Not that he didn't want to, he couldn't. John held his hands pinned to the wall and his body was flattened against Sherlock's so that he could barely move. John's lips ravished his until he was gasping for breath. His elongated teeth grazed over him, leaving scratches on his alabaster skin. Sherlock's mind couldn't function. This was an experience with which he was unfamiliar. The combination of sensations overwhelmed him. His mind shut down. Instinct leapt to the surface. He opened his mouth to the doctor's. John grinned hungrily, his tongue slipping inside. Sherlock kissed back, pushing against John's lips, trying to gain the upper hand. John wasn't having it. He pushed himself down on the detective more forcefully. He was in control. Sherlock felt something hard push into his abdomen. The genius's mind suddenly went into overdrive. He pushed against John. He needed out. _This is _John _for god's sake! _Sherlock couldn't breathe! He tried to turn his head and found a powerful hand holding him in place. Panic rose in Sherlock as he felt John trying to press them even closer together. He fought and thrashed, only gaining a few inches of movement. No, Sherlock didn't want this. This wasn't John!

The door banged open. Sherlock suddenly found himself in a heap on the floor, John standing over him, a menacing growl echoing from his throat. Stapleton stood by the door, staring at John with his arms spread wide in a placating gesture. John's tail whipped back and forth across the floor, his ears pinned to his head and his claws drawn. He looked ready to pounce on Stapleton if he moved a step closer.

"John," he started carefully, "calm down. Let Sherlock go, okay? I know your instincts are screaming at you, but you have to calm down."

John let loose a roar that shook the monitors and crouched down lower into a fighting stance. "Mine!" he howled.

"John," Sherlock grabbed the doctor's pant leg. He span around, hunger filling his eyes as they fell upon the detective. Then they rolled into his head and he collapsed. Sherlock stared stunned at the lifeless form of his friend. He looked up to see Stapleton standing with a syringe in his fingers. Worry flooded Sherlock's shell shocked mind. "What was that? What did you give him?" he demanded, hurriedly checking his pulse and respiration.

"Just a sedative, Mr Holmes. He'll be out for a few hours at least."

Sherlock rearranged John on the floor so he would be more comfortable, taking care that he was not lying on his tail, before turning and asking the question he was not sure he wanted to know the answer to, "What just happened?"

Stapleton looked at him very seriously, trying to figure out how to explain. "You understand that John is part feline, yes?" Sherlock nodded, "Well, you must know something of feline physiology." Again, he nodded. Why that was something he had not deleted, he had no idea. "It is now the middle of spring. At this point in the year, felines often go into heat, they try to find a mate. John, I'm afraid is no exception." The colour instantly drained from Sherlock's face.

"So, what you're trying to tell me is that-"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Don't take it too personally. He probably chose you because you were the only one around when the heat set in. Don't worry though. He'll be back to his old self in a day or two."

Sherlock's mind tried to process what he was being told and comprehend what had just happened. John's feline nature affected more than just his appearance.

"What do we do in the mean time?" Sherlock asked, pasting on his visage of outer calm to hide his inner turmoil. Stapleton sighed.

"He'll have to go back in the room."

Sherlock froze. He remembered the fear he'd seen when John had been in there. John was terrified of that place. He was terrified of what he became while he was there.

"Is there any other way?"

Stapleton turned to him. He had a look about him, like he had something but he wasn't sure whether to share or not. Sherlock gave him a look that said 'if you don't, I'll take everything to _The Times_.' He needed no further encouragement.

"I've been working on a hormone suppressant for a while now. It hasn't been tested though."

"So test it now."

Stapleton took a deep breath. He walked to the cabinet on the other side of the small laboratory where he removed an injector pen and a vile of orange liquid. He knelt next to John's body and, looking over at Sherlock, said "If our theory is correct, this will only hide the strongest urges. I'm afraid that the base desire will still be there but it'll just feel like a lingering crush." Sherlock nodded. "I've also mixed in a stimulant to counteract the sedative. He should wake up as soon as he's injected." Stapleton pressed the pen into John's stomach. His eyes snapped open and he shot up with a scream. He panted, his eyes dashing wildly around the room. They fell on Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" he gasped, "What the hell happened?"

Sherlock looked over at Stapleton who nodded before he answered, "You collapsed. Dehydration, exhaustion."

John shook his head and air hissed through his teeth. "Wow, my head feels weird."

"After effects of the medication," Stapleton supplied. "How do you feel?"

"All round, terrible. Specifically, hungry and tired." He smirked and tried to pull himself to his feet. Sherlock helped him up and put his arm around John's waist to take his weight. Sherlock noticed the blush climbing up John's cheeks and smiled.

_Like a lingering crush._

Oh, Sherlock was going to have fun with this.

**A/N: ****And there you have it! Sherlock's going to be a little devil in the next chapter! . It's going to be so fun to write! Anyway, let us know what you think, It's always nice to hear from you guys! I will not see you and you will not see me but I will see you on Friday!**

**Oh, also! This week is my last week of school before the holiday's and I would like to say that means I can write more but I do believe we are going camping so... Yeah, if you don't hear from me, assume I got eaten by dropbears! Happy Holidays!**


	10. Chapter 10: Flirtation

**A/N: ****Hey guys! Here's your chapter. I haven't proofed this one and it hasn't been beta-ed so sorry if there are any mistakes feel free to point them out. Sorry the last chapter was so short! I kind of rushed through it... So! I'll stop getting in your way! Enjoy the chapter!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 10: Flirtation **

Stapleton spent a few minutes giving John a once over, making sure he was well enough to move and that there were no immediate ill effects of the hormone inhibitor. John complained endlessly that he was fine but when it came time to leave, he only managed a few shaky steps unaided before toppling over. Sherlock grunted something about "bloody soldiers' pride", before using his good arm to drag John to his feet once again. After the third failed attempt to make it to the door by himself, he finally relented and let Sherlock help him outside where they found a cab waiting.

When they returned to the apartment, John had barely made it to the couch before Mrs Hudson burst in, fussing about, asking questions. She wrapped her arms around him in a crush that felt, to the weakened man, bone crushing at best.

"And where have you been? We were all worried sick! And poor Sherlock, he's been waiting for you to come back…"

"Waiting?" the phrasing confused him.

"Oh, heavens, yes! He's barely moved from that couch since you disappeared! Hasn't eaten, hasn't slept! I thought for sure he'd keel over if you didn't come home soon!"

John turned as best he could in the old woman's grasp to glare at Sherlock. It was his 'why-couldn't-you-be-human-for-five-minutes-to-take-care-of-your-body-because-you-kind-of-need-to-eat-and-sleep-to-live-you-know' face. Sherlock loved that face. It reminded him that at least someone cared about him. He didn't need a family or a group of friends, he just needed one person. He just needed John. Sherlock's eyes flittered across John's features, taking in every little aspect of the face he had begun to think he'd never see again. The narrow accusing eyes, the thin lips and crinkled eyebrows, the slight flush in John's cheeks. A Stupid grin pulled at Sherlock face and the blush on John's deepened. He turned his face from the detective and tried to pry himself loose from Mrs Hudson's grip.

"I'm sorry Mrs Hudson," John explained "there was a bit of a family crisis. Harry's had another relapse. A bad one, this time. I had to go as soon as possible and I accidently left my phone here."

It was a bad lie. A horrible one, in fact. Sherlock remembered in the weeks he'd spent pacing the flat he repeatedly yelled about John not answering his phone and how he knew it wasn't there somewhere. And then there was the fact that John could have easily used someone else's phone to call home. Or a public phone, for that matter. And then there was his poor health and Sherlock's shoulder. How was his lie going to cover up that one?

"Oh, poor dear. Is she alright?"

"She's fine. We checked her back into a clinic."

"And what about you, love? You're all skin and bones! And Sherlock, dear, what happened to your arm?" Mrs Hudson was slowly working herself into a panic again. John put his hand on her shoulder to assure her.

"I was incredibly worried about Harry, I'm afraid I've been about as good to my health as Sherlock by the sounds of it. On the cab ride back, we got into a bit of an accident. Some twat T-boned our car and Sherlock got the brunt of it."

It was amazing how easily the lies rolled from his mouth. If Sherlock didn't know what had actually happened, he might even believe him. John showed none of the usual outward signs of lying; no twitching, no shifting, no avoiding eye contact. It was as if he himself believed the deception. Sherlock frowned as he wondered how many other times John had lied to him like this.

"Mrs Hudson, would you please get the first aid kit? It's under the sink."

"Of course, dear. Sherlock Holmes, you sit down right now and let the doctor do his work!" She called as she walked off in search of the kit. Sherlock snickered and let the thought slide. For now. He dropped into the chair and started peeling of the remains of his shirt. Mrs Hudson returned with the kit just as Sherlock hissed in pain. She gasped a few times before leaving the room, muttering something about the oven. When he heard the door click firmly shut behind her, John let out a long low sigh and pushed the hoodie back off his face.

"For god's sake, Sherlock, let me do it!" John pushed detectives hand away and ran a claw up the seam along the bottom of his arm and then down his side, splitting the shirt in half. He gently pulled it away, leaving Sherlock in only his trousers. John took a long deep breath and tried to focus them on the wound but Sherlock could see them wandering. He could see John's pupils dilate and the slightly pink tinge to his flesh. It took all of Sherlock's willpower not to grin. He sat perfectly still as John walked a circle round him, assessing the damage again now that he had a clear view. He mumbled something about Sherlock being an idiot for coming to find him before walking to the kitchen and returning with a bowl of warm water and a towel. "This has got disinfectant in it so it's going to sting a bit," John warned.

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "I'm not a child John."

John smirked, his ears pricking up. "Could have fooled me."

He crouched down and began wiping away the blood. Sherlock couldn't help but notice the way John was bitting the inside of his cheek and the way he bit down just a little bit harder whenever his fingers brushed Sherlock's skin. When the blood was cleared, he dropped the rag back into the bowl and fumbled with the kit. Sherlock looked at it. It was the same one they always used. John's old army kit. It was a small unassuming metal box painted in desert camouflage colours with a large white circle baring a red cross painted on the top. To anyone else it would have just been another kit but to John it held a story. It had carried him hell and let him and many others live to tell the tale. Its surface was littered with dents left by bullets. It was definitely more than just a box.

John pulled a cotton pad and some bandages from the kit along with a tube of disinfectant gel and a sling. Sherlock frowned at the last item but said nothing. John took one last look at the wound to make sure there wasn't anything stuck in it. He gulped at the sight of it. Five long scratches that started at Sherlock's shoulder blade and came down across his chest just below his collar bone. They were each roughly half an inch deep and a centimetre wide. It was a grizzly sight, even to the army doctor. No matter what John did, it was going to scar.

"John?" He looked up. "You look… upset."

"It's nothing," he said a little too quickly "I'm fine."

He reached for the tube and felt a hand on his cheek. He couldn't help the fire that ran across his flesh. Blush began climbing up his neck. Sherlock's soft hand turned John back to look at him. Sherlock's face was creased with worry but there was something else there. Mischief?

"What's wrong?"

After a minute of staring into Sherlock's crystal blue eyes, John came back to himself, his eyes fixing themselves to the gashes he left on his friend. "They're going to scar," he said simply.

"And that bothers you?"

"_I _put them there and they're going to scar."

"Ah," Sherlock said, gently removing his hand. John instantly felt the loss. He tried pointedly to ignore the feeling in his gut that was screaming at him to jump the man sitting in front of him. _Get a hold of yourself, _he chastised, _that is Sherlock bloody Holmes! He's your flatmate. Get your head on straight! _Straight. John almost scoffed at his choice of words. John squeezed some of the gel onto his fingers and shifted so that he could rub it into the gashes. Sherlock groaned in pain as the sting and the pressure sent bolts of it coursing through his arm. The sound sent a bolt of heat heading south somewhere inside John. His blush deepened again as he mumbled an apology, half to Sherlock and half to himself. When he'd finished he looked up at Sherlock. He was panting, his skin streaked with sweat and his bottom lip red from where he'd clearly been bitting it. _God, he looks shagable. What? No! Stop it! Stop it right now! _John picked the padding and bandages off the floor and started applying them. Every time his fingers grazed over Sherlock's skin he felt his nerves catch fire. What the hell was wrong with him? He finished up as neatly and quickly as he could.

"Right," he announced, "Done. I'm going to go have a shower and go to bed. I'm exhausted." John span on his heels and headed toward off toward his bed room. He didn't get more than a few steps before long thin fingers wrapped around his wrist and span him round where he came face to face with the very firm and very bare chest of his flatmate. "Sherlock, what-" the sentence died in his throat when he felt a hand on his side, slowly trekking upwards. His breath hitched when it rounded onto his chest and up over his shoulder to the side of neck. His eyes closed to the sensation and he gave an involuntary shiver of pleasure. The hand continued across his shoulder, under the coat and down his arm. He felt the coat slipping off his shoulders but it didn't register in his mind. It pulled away completely, leaving John feeling slightly chilled. Then the hands left as well. His eyes snapped open. Sherlock was walking back to the couch with the coat draped over one shoulder. _He just wanted his coat back, _John thought, half relieved half disappointed. He dropped his head down, his ears pinned back and frustration and his tail drooping between his legs. It had been a long day, John just wanted to rest.

Then came the sound of knuckles on the door. John sighed in frustration. _Is it too much to ask for five minutes of peace? _He walked over to answer it when he remembered. He panicked. How was he going to hide this? He couldn't walk around in that coat and hoodie all the time! And what about now? What was he going to do? John saw the stairs and ran. Sherlock had already opened the door. John jumped and rolled behind the lounge, the only place he could get to in time. The familiar clack of expensive shoes and the unwelcome tapping of an umbrella gave away the identity of their guest long before they spoke.

"Good morning, little brother."

**A/N: ****Ah! And we're back at the flat! Sherlock is so cheeky! . I hope you liked it, let me know what you think, point out my retardedness, whatever floats your boat! Thanks for reading and thanks for all the reviews! You guys are the best! See you next time!**


	11. Chapter 11: Conversation

**A/N: ****Um, hi guys. Sorry, like I said holidays and stuff. Sorry it wasn't up but yeah, no computer. Anyway, this chapter is a bit more of a talking chapter so lots of dialogue and stuff. Thanks for the review and favorites, it means a great deal! Have fun and enjoy!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 11: Conversation**

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, the disdain in his voice palpable. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He pushed past Sherlock and made his way into the flat, his expensive dress-shoes clacking against the wooden flooring, his eyes raking over the room, taking everything in. Sherlock saw his brother stop on the military kit sitting open on the floor by the lounge. He looked back at Sherlock, noticing his bare torso still streak with blood and sweat. He immediately deduced that he had been hurt in some form or other but chose not to say anything. _Wise choice. _

"I've heard that the good doctor is back." Sherlock froze, his eyes darting around the flat. "Oh come now, Sherlock. There are no cameras in the flat. But on the street…" Sherlock remained frozen with his eyes fixed on his brother. _Did he see…? _"However," Mycroft turned and dropped gracefully into John's chair. Sherlock inwardly fumed but said nothing. ",it was rather hard to tell it was him under all those jackets. Now, correct me if I'm wrong but Doctor Watson is rather keener on horrid sweaters than hoodies and… long coats." The last words dripped off his tongue with an implication with which Sherlock was unfamiliar. It didn't sit right with him.

"That still doesn't answer my question," Sherlock stated, a small smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth.

"Ah, but it does, little brother." Sherlock stared at him confused. Mycroft stood, crossed the room in a few purposeful strides and leaned in close to Sherlock's ear. "You made me a promise." Sherlock went stiff.

"No," he said flatly. "John just got home. He's exhausted and in no shape to-"

"Tonight, 7 o'clock, my house. I'll send a car."

"No need." If they took Mycroft's car then they would have no escape route and John certainly couldn't run. That was, of course, if they had any intention of going.

"Very well." Mycroft turned to gaze over the apartment once more. When he turned back, there was a sour look on his face, as if someone had stolen his cake. "Sherlock, don't leave your experiments lying around. You know how John hates it." Sherlock looked at him unsure and turned to the room. His heart nearly gave out as he saw the long blonde and black tiger's tail stretched out behind the lounge. He tried to hide his fear as he turned back to his brother, a stony expression plastered on his pallid features. Mycroft looked him up and down. He reached up with the handle of his umbrella and pushed the coat from wear it had been resting on Sherlock's shoulder to reveal the bandages. Mycroft stared at it for a moment before sighing and trotting out the door. "Be more careful next time," he called over his shoulder. Sherlock shut the door and collapsed against it.

What was he going to do? There was no way he could drag John out to Mycroft's for the night. Especially not with his condition. He couldn't even begin to imagine Mycroft's face when John showed up with cat ears and a tail. Not to mention the hormone thing. God! What was he going to-

"Sherlock?" he jumped to his feet, affixing his eyes to the small figure standing below him. Sherlock looked at John. He was hunched over, his ears pinned down and tail between his legs, eyes wide. He looked terrified. Sherlock realized that his teeth were gritted, his hands balled into fists and his chest heaving. He must have looked incredibly angry. Sherlock drew a deep breath and stepped back from John.

"I'm sorry, I just-"

"It's fine," he interrupted.

They stood for a few moments in silence, neither one looking at the other, until finally Sherlock found it too tedious.

"What did you want to say?" he prodded.

"Sherlock, what did you promise?" Then John looked up. His eyes were full of concern and fear. Fear that Sherlock had promised something that he couldn't do.

"John, I…" Sherlock looked down in shame before he continued. "When you were gone, I was so worried. I made Mycroft a promise in exchange for help finding you."

"Sherlock, what did you promise?" He looked up at John. Sherlock looked so vulnerable.

"I promised I would bring you for dinner."

The room fell into silence. John stared at Sherlock and Sherlock at John. John blinked a few times while he tried to process this.

He looked at Sherlock and said, "Dinner?"

"Yes, but I barely knew what I was agreeing too and I didn't know about your condition!" Sherlock tried to defend himself. "John, you have to believe that I-" Sherlock was cut off by laughter. John was laughing! Sherlock looked at him, completely and utterly shocked. "John?"

"Dinner!" he howled, laughing harder the more he said it. After a few minutes John started to topple. Still weak, his legs gave out under him. Sherlock caught him in his arms and guided him to the chair where he collapsed, still laughing. After several minutes of Sherlock's confused looks he took pity, muffling his laughter he said, "I thought you promised something crazy like giving up working with the Yard." Sherlock marveled at how that topped John's list of crazy.

"But John," Sherlock started, "look at yourself. How are you going to get through this dinner without Mycroft noticing?"

John gave a devilish smirk.

"The same way I lived with you for two years and you didn't notice."

Sherlock frowned and helped John to his feet when he began to struggle. John led Sherlock up to his room where he deposited John on the bed and began to watch in fascination. John turned to the bedside table and pulled out a small Ziploc bag of blue pills. Sherlock looked at them with familiarity as John fished one out and held it in the palm of his hand. John looked at it sadly before bringing it to his mouth. Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

"John, before you… tell me more about this," Sherlock asked gesturing to the ears and tail. "I know why and how but I want you to tell me… everything else."

John gave Sherlock a weak smile. "That'll take a while." Sherlock gave him a pleading look. John sighed and began.

"I was born this way, you know. I didn't look human or… like the other thing. I looked like this." He played silently with the tip of his tail. "Imagine the doctors' faces. To see a baby with giant cat ears." He chuckled half-heartedly. "I guess you know what happened to my mother?" Sherlock nodded. "But my dad… Well, he didn't take too well to having a freak for a son." John bared his teeth and pinned his ears back. "I couldn't go outside so… It was a nice place. A farm. A long way away from anywhere I could cause any damage or be seen. Dad came around every fortnight or so with food, every six months with clothes." Sherlock gaped at his friend.

"So, what you're saying is that you lived in solitary for years?"

"Three days, ten months and seventeen years to be exact."

"And he just left you there?" Rage was quickly building in Sherlock now. How could someone do that to their own child? Sherlock may not be good with social situations but even he understood that that was despicable.

"It wasn't so bad," John defended, trying to calm his friend. "I got to do whatever I wanted except… you know… leave. But Doctor Stapleton, he came around and taught me things, like a tutor. And then when he came up with these," John held up the pill in his hand, "I got to go to school!" Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the gleam in his eyes. He looked like going to school was one of the most magical experiences of his life. "And then I became a doctor and joined the army. One day, my colonel was doing a possession search while I was out on duty. When I came back, he confronted me about the pills and when I tried to explain, he wouldn't listen and he threw them away." John looked down at his hands clenched tightly in his lap. "So, that night I changed. My team started calling me a freak and pulling at my ears and tail. I got upset." John looked up at Sherlock tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "You have to believe me. I didn't mean to…" He dropped his face into his hands. Sherlock sat down on the bed next to him and wrapped an arm around his shaking shoulders.

"It's okay, you don't have to. I know you would never hurt anyone on purpose."

John shifted under Sherlock's arms and looked at the pill he held. Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's and lifted it to his mouth. John swallowed it dry, leaning into Sherlock side and closing his eyes waiting for the drug to take effect. Sherlock held him tight as the convulsions began. He wanted to keep John safe. He wanted to keep him happy. He deserved it.

**A/N: ****I thought it was probably time I gave a bit of an outline on John's past in this fic. I hope it was okay, I was really stuck on this. This is another one of those chapters that I didn't get around to editing before putting it up so, as always, please point out mistakes otherwise I feel like an idiot.**

**Also I wanted to let you guys know that I'm starting another fic (two at a time, this is going to be hard...)! It's an Avengers fic so if your interested, the first two chapters should be up today theoretically. **

**Thanks for reading, guys! I love you all so much! **


	12. Chapter 12: Irritation

**A/N: ****Merry belated Christmas or whatever doesn't offend you! That has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? So, here's the new chapter. I have no idea what happened... I swear this was not at all what I had intended to happen this chapter but hey! It did, so please don't hate me? Anyway, off you go. Please enjoy!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 12: Irritation **

John stood in front of the mirror. He had since pulled on some of his own clothes and was busily pushing his hair away from his face, anything to avoid looking at Sherlock who was gazing at him intently. There was something in the way he was looking at him. Something that wasn't quite right. John turned to him.

"What?" he asked. Sherlock blinked as if he had been in some form of trance and gave John a confused look. "Why are you staring at me?" Sherlock blinked again, seemingly not realising that he had been staring at all.

"I like you better the other way," he stated, rising from the bed and striding out into the kitchen leaving a dumbfounded John to gape after him.

When John entered the kitchen Sherlock was busy spreading jam onto two slices of toast and the kettle was whistling loudly on the stove. John walked cautiously, still unsure of his legs. Sherlock noticed him and pushed out a chair at the kitchen table which, John noticed, was clear of its usual burden of experiments. He sat and, to his surprise, Sherlock placed the plate in front of him and busied himself with the tea. John gave a gruff thank you around a mouthful of toast, not realising how hungry he'd been. By the time he'd finished, Sherlock placed another plate, this one laden with bacon eggs and sausage, in front of him. John looked up at the detective curiously.

"You are aware that you've not eaten for ten days?" Sherlock questioned. As a response John's stomach growled when the smell of the food hit his nose. Sherlock smiled and went back to cooking as John dug into his meal without further complaint.

After the fourth plate John couldn't eat anything more. He leaned back in the chair, fully content, and watched the detective. He was leaning against the counter with a small smirk on his face as he nibbled quietly on a piece of dry toast. He was being uncharacteristically nice. John wanted to question it but he was too full. He heaved himself from his chair, instantly finding an arm around his waist. John felt the blush creeping up his cheeks and his back stiffen. What was wrong with him? He tried to force himself to relax but with little success. Sherlock gave him a gentle nudge when John hadn't moved. He helped him to the lounge where he slowly lowered John to the cushions. John almost felt naked when the arm removed from his back. He missed the sensation dearly but said nothing. What could he say? '_Hey Sherlock, would you mind sitting down and hugging me for a while? I miss the feel of you touching-' _

John's mind conjured an entirely different image. His cheeks burned bright red. Years with nothing better to do had granted John a very vivid imagination and once he got an idea in his head it stuck. The image stayed firmly fixed to the back of his eyelids causing a deeper blush to move over his features with every passing second.

"John?" Sherlock was in front of him again. "Are you alright?" He pushed a hand to his forehead, gasping as he came in contact with the skin. "You're burning up!" Sherlock retreated into the kitchen and returned with a damp cloth between his fingers. John had fallen asleep. Sherlock smiled fondly and placed the cloth over his forehead to try and reduce the fever. Sherlock couldn't help but gaze at him. His face was so relaxed, his features not worn by the obvious burden that constantly loomed on his mind. He looked almost childlike in his expression; innocent, carefree, happy. It was an expression that Sherlock adored. It was one that he hoped to see on John when he was awake.

What was this? Sherlock suddenly realised that he felt something. Something he had never experienced before. It was… strange. Not unwelcome but incredibly unfamiliar. It was itching at him like a flea would a dog. What is it? It was like a mixture of happiness and fondness but it was somehow more. He knew he cared about John but this was… different. He silently cursed as he tried to decipher his own emotional turmoil. What did he feel? What did it mean?

He was wrenched from his thoughts when a groan drew his attention to the lounge. John was tossing and turning in his sleep. His mouth hung open and his breathing was elevated, his face still a deep shade of red and his hands balled into fists at his side. Sherlock was about to call his name when John arched off the lounged.

"Sher-Sherlock," he groaned, throwing his head to the side. Sherlock tipped his head to the word. There was something in John's voice. At first Sherlock had thought him having another nightmare but now he was not so sure. As sweat beaded on John's forehead he muttered again, "O-oh god, please…"

That was when it clicked. Sherlock dropped his face as his cheeks reddened. John was having a dream about him. A most pleasurable dream. Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath and reached down. He pulled John into his arms and carried him bridal style to the stairs. John was still moaning and tossing and turning in Sherlock's arms and something in Sherlock did not at all mind. Sherlock pushed open the door and gently laid John down on the bed. When he tried to pull away he found fingers tangled in his black curls. Sherlock tried to remove them but the fist was bunched, tugging him gently down. Sherlock's heart sped up astronomically. He leaned forward, gently brushing his lips against John's cheek and his fingers along John's exposed stomach. He gave another shuddering breath against John's ear and run his hands up the underside of John's arms, following them until he reached his hands in his hair. He grabbed his wrists and gently squeezed.

"Let. Go," Sherlock whispered, his voice was much deeper than normal. _Interesting, _he thought though his mind was having much trouble processing anything at this point.

John's fingers released their hold. Sherlock laid his arms next to him on the bed, hearing a small unsatisfied whimper leave John's throat. A shiver ran down the detective's spine. Sherlock pulled the blankets up around John only for him to kick them off again and grope blindly for Sherlock. Sherlock jumped out of his reach, stumbling halfway out of the door. He looked back to John, his eyes roaming over his form for a moment. Sherlock saw the noticeable bulge at between the doctor's legs. He caught himself groaning needily at the sight. He bit his tongue and turned from the room. He looked down to his shoes trying to gather his thoughts and-

-finding himself much in need of a cold shower.

**A/N: ****Oh my god, what even is this chapter? *facepalm of shame* Thank you for putting up with my stupidity and I'm approaching the end of this story. Thank you all so much for reading and a special thank you to those who take the time to review week after week. I love you guys and I hope you have the patience to survive a few more chapters!**

**Bye guys, see you next time!**


	13. Chapter 13: Jealousy

**A/N: ****Hi guys! Sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter up for you. I just started at a new school so between that and the ridiculous amount of birthdays in our family near the beginning and end of the year, I haven't really had time to write... and yeah I know this is short and nothing much happens but IDGAF! I WROTE THIS WHEN I WOKE UP AT 2 AM SO WHATEVER! I also couldn't find an 'ation' word that fit this chapter but I have some for the next couple so yeah...**

**I won't take up anymore of your time. Read and enjoy!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 13: Jealousy **

Sherlock tapped his foot testily as he waited for John in the lounge room. It was already six o'clock. If they didn't leave soon they wold be late. Not that Sherlock minded. He and John had barely had enough time to eat and rest before Mycroft showed up and demanded that they come for dinner. They were both exhausted and hungry. This was the last thing they needed. Sherlock rolled his sore shoulder to alleviate the throb and called up the stairs.

"Honestly, John. I don't understand why you want to dress up for my brother!" Sherlock turned and began pacing angrily. _Dress up for me. _He froze, blinked and shook the thought from his head. Where had that come from?

"Because your brother _is _the British government, remember? It couldn't hurt to leave a good impression."

Sherlock threw his hands up in resignation and dropped grumpily into the lounge. He muttered mixed complaints about his state and disdain for his brother until the door finally clicked open. Sherlock looked up as John walked shakily down the stairs. Sherlock's jaw nearly dropped. John wore a pair of tan trousers, a white shirt tucked in, a black tie and a black suit jacket. It was the most grotesque attempt at formal dinnerware that Sherlock had ever seen.

"What do you think?" John asked, smiling.

Sherlock jumped from his seat, grabbed John by the arm and dragged him back up the stairs. Sherlock pushed him onto the bed and stomped to the wardrobe. He pushed the door open, ignoring John's complaints, and began rummaging through the hangers. He grabbed a few items and threw them at the doctor.

"If you want to impress my brother then don't dress like you just came from the salvos." Sherlock turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He waited until John emerged once more. This time he wore a fitted navy dress shirt and a pair of black slacks with no jacket. The shirt was untucked and the first few buttons of the shirt left undone, exposing his collar bones. Sherlock turned his face away. "Let's go." Sherlock walked out of the flat and down to the street to hail a cab. He kept a hand over his reddening face. He couldn't look at John in those clothes. When he did, his thoughts went to unfamiliar places. The shirt came in tightly around John's chest and middle, highlighting the muscles usually hidden beneath those ridiculous sweaters. Sherlock remembered the way John looked standing in the coatroom just that morning. Sherlock knew that image would stick to t back of his eyes for weeks to come.

A cab pulled over to the street just as John stepped down onto the sidewalk. They both climbed in and Sherlock gave the cabbie directions. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed to the window, watching the world scroll by and trying to focus his mind anywhere but John. _How many times? _The question pestered his thoughts with never ending persistence. How could he ask the doctor? He could feel his eyes on him, watching his disregard curiously. John could tell Sherlock was ignoring him but he didn't know why. Maybe he was upset about the dinner. John knew well that the Holmes siblings didn't exactly get along. He also knew that Sherlock hadn't been taking care of himself while John was missing. He could see the rings under his eyes and the painful slenderness of his body. John made a mental note to scold the detective later. John kept watching. He noticed his rigidness and the close attention he was paying to the drifting scenery. John cocked his head. Sherlock was covering his face. His hand had remained firmly fixed to his mouth and cheek since they entered the cab and his face stayed turned from the car's other occupants. What was he hiding?

"Sherlock-"

Just as John was about to ask, the cab came to a screeching stop in front of a large estate house. John checked his watch and noticed he'd been regarding the detective for over an hour. Startled, he stepped out of the cab after his flatmate who was already hurrying down the path toward the house. On the doorstep John suddenly felt very intimidated. Before him were two enormous oak doors with mosaic front panels and golden door handles. The grandness of it all seemed like something out of story. Like the palace of some prince.

"Let's get this over with," Sherlock growled beside him. John closed his mouth. He didn't realise it had been open. Sherlock rang the doorbell and within seconds a small plump middle-aged lady opened one of the palace doors. "Mrs Denton!" Sherlock laughed. "Does Mycroft still have you answering doors after all these years?"

"Sherlock dear! Well, there's never a shortage of guests. Oh, it's been years. Just look at you!" Mrs Denton straightened out Sherlock's jacket and patted his cheek affectionately. John smiled. Sherlock had that look on his face. That genuinely happy look. How long had it been since he'd seen it last? John couldn't even remember. Mrs Denton suddenly slapped Sherlock's shoulder, startling the detective. "Well, don't be rude then! Who's your friend?" She gestured to John and turned her smiling face to him.

"Ah, Mrs Denton, this is Doctor John Watson, my colleague. John, this is Mrs Denton, Mycroft's housekeeper. She's been like a mother to me."

"Sherlock," she warned, "If your mother ever heard you talk like that…"

"She would probably tell _you_ to scold me," he smiled bitterly.

"I just might if you keep on like that! It's lovely to meet you, doctor. Mycroft is waiting in the parlour. Come on in." Mrs Denton moved back inside and held the door for them. Sherlock led the way and John pottered slowly after him, still unsure of his legs. The palace was just as awe inspiring on the inside as it was on the out; from the roof of the cavernous entry room hung a gilded chandelier that cast a beautiful golden glow over the various portraits that hung on the alabaster walls and reflected warmly off the polished marble floors. It was straight out of a fairy tale. This couldn't be where Mycroft lived. There was no way!

"John," the doctor turned his attention from the décor. Sherlock was standing at the other end of the room next to an archway staring at the doctor impatiently. John hurried as quickly as he could manage to his side. Sherlock quickly looked away from him and continued down the corridor at a pace that put him just a few steps ahead of John so that he couldn't see his face. _Is he still ignoring me? _The detective led them through a series of winding extravagant hallways to a small unassuming door. Compared to the rest of the house this door seemed oddly out of place. It was a plain light wood with a brass handle and nothing but a small plaque that read 'Parlour' adorning its surface.

John turned to Sherlock. The detective was frozen. His eyes were locked on the door with an intense mixture of hatred and fear. His chest shook with short shallow breaths as he struggled to maintain the same calm mask he was famous for. John had never seen Sherlock like this. It scared him.

He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm. The detective's eyes turned to the doctor. They rang with warning but John ignored it. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sherlock insisted as he shook John's hand off but he wasn't giving up so easily. He grabbed Sherlock's shredded shoulder and squeezed. Sherlock bit back a grunt and glared at the older man. "Nothing important," he corrected.

"If it's got you worried then it's important. Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

"Then why'd _you_ lie to _me_?" he hissed. John was stunned. That was a question he'd never expected and hoped never to be asked. "The way you lied to Mrs Hudson, how do I know you've never done that to me?" Sherlock couldn't hold the question back anymore. It had been eating away at him since he'd seen it. _How many times?_ "How many times did you say you were going to visit Harry and went to that cage?"

"Never." Sherlock stopped in the middle of his rant. "I haven't been to that cage in five years. I never lied to you about going there." John slid his hand down to Sherlock's wrist and tried again. "Sherlock, I know that's not what's bothering you so tell me the truth."

Sherlock dropped his face to his shoes and mumbled into his chest, "I don't want Mycroft to find out about you," before shaking off John's hand and pushing through the door, leaving a stunned doctor in the hall.

**A/N: ****So yeah again sincerest apologies yadda yadda yadda. I'll try to get back on a more regular upload schedule. Thanks for reading and sticking around despite the gap! See you next time!**


	14. Chapter 14: Confrontation

**A/N: ****Aha, so it's been another two weeks... oops? Here's the new chapter. Be thankful you're getting them! I haven't updated my other story since before christmas... But there are a few warnings associated with this chapter.**

**1. THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MAJOR VIOLENCE!**

**2. DON'T HATE THE AUTHOR. YOU ALL SIGNED UP FOR THIS CRAP!**

**Have fun! ;)**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 14: Confrontation**

John stood, stunned. His eyes stayed fixed to the back of the detective as he quarrelled with his brother. Though he stood so close the words didn't reach him. Was he…? No, surely not. Not the great Consulting Detective. There was no way he could be-

"John?" He blinked and saw that Sherlock was stood right in front of him, his eyes full of worry and embarrassment. "See, Mycroft? He's not well enough for this. I'm taking him home."

"Sherlock don't be so hasty!" Mycroft argued.

"Can't you see he's barely standing?" With a shock John realised his legs were shaking as was his left hand. He felt a sudden crushing wave of anxiety flood through him. John took a deep, shaky breath, forcing the panic to the depth of his mind. Why was he so afraid?

"Sherlock, I'm fine," John insisted, forcibly straightening his spine. This did not slip the detective's notice. "Mycroft, always a pleasure." He didn't bother holding out a hand. He knew Mycroft wouldn't shake it.

"Most definitely, doctor," Mycroft grinned, his eyes trained on the disapproving scowl his brother was directing at his companion. "Shall I give you the tour?"

Mycroft led them from the parlour down the hallway. He pointed out the staircase which led to the guest bedrooms and Mrs Denton's rooms, the lounge room, home to the enormous home theatre system that seemed oddly out of place in such an old fashioned house, a study with walls lined with books, a small downstairs bathroom containing but a toilet and basin, the kitchens and, at the very end of the corridor, the dining hall. John couldn't help but gape at the enormity of the room. The ceiling, some ten metres high, was painted in glorious shades of yellow with red floral elements weaving across its surface. The expanse was broken up by sections of mosaic windows beautifully depicting biblical scenes. They looked like something from a seventeenth century church, not a twentieth century residential home. From the centre of the roof hung two great chandeliers, much like the ones in the entry hall, casting a welcoming glow over the space. The room was warm despite its size, adding to the inviting atmosphere. In the middle of the room sat a wooden table long enough to seat the Queen's army. Mycroft guided them to one end which was set for three people. Mycroft sat at the head with John to his left and Sherlock to his right. The detective's mood darkened even more as he sat down. He had dropped all pretence of being satisfied by the situation by this point. Mrs Denton brought out the first course along with drinks and Mycroft began to talk.

"So John, how are things at the clinic?"

The conversation started off simply enough; talk of the clinic, cases solved and ongoing, business in parliament, John's blog, Mycroft's diet. The unease in John's stomach began to lift. He ate hungrily but politely as the food was served and talked contentedly about whatever Mycroft brought up. John glanced across the table at Sherlock who had remained silent since John shrugged off his attempt to take him home. His food sat untouched before him and continued to glare alternatingly between his brother and the doctor. John tried to ignore his stubbornness but he felt a stone settle in the pit of his stomach. Soon the conversation turned to the inevitable topic of John's vanishing.

"But where did you go? You should have seen the state Sherlock was in." The younger Holmes huffed dismissively.

"My sister, Harry, had another relapse. We were staging an intervention," John said confidently, laying down his fork.

"Hmm, I might have believed you," Sherlock sat straighter in his chair, his piercing gaze fixing on his sibling. "had you continued to eat." John looked at him, confused. "Your hunger has been insatiable since you sat down. You placed your fork, half way to your mouth, back down once I asked a question which you didn't want to answer meaning the question had turned your appetite. The way you straightened your leg suggests that you are uncomfortable with the question and that it reminds you of the reason for that old limp. Afghanistan and your relative's relapse are two very different topics which means that you're lying though you show no signs of it on your face or in your voice."

"Mycroft," Sherlock warned, now sitting up and fully attentive to the conversation. Mycroft continued regardless.

"That would suggest a seasoned liar, someone who lies often and to the faces of others. Which means this is an old secret. Something at you've been carrying for a long, long time. So, John, care to tell me the truth?"

John sat frozen, his body shaking as he stared wide-eyed at the eldest Holmes. Everything he'd ever tried to keep hidden was being _deduced _by that cruel malicious man. John felt fear and anxiety rage through his blood. He felt the adrenaline in his veins as his fight or flight instincts kicked in. Everything Sherlock warned him would happen was happening. He couldn't breathe. He needed air. He needed to get out!

"John?" Sherlock tried cautiously, seeing the glaze in his friend's eyes. Mycroft watched with interest as Sherlock tried to coax John out of his trance.

"Or," Mycroft continued. "I could call my friends in the army and ask them about-"

John's eyes snapped into focus. He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair, and ran from the room. Sherlock called out and ran after him, leaving Mycroft to snicker by himself.

_Those two, _he thought, _are such idiots._

*/*/*/

Sherlock ran out of the hall and into the corridor. His eyes skimmed frantically. _Where did he go? Where did he go? _A cry so quiet it could have been imagined drifted through the silent space. Sherlock ran towards the bathroom. He called out the doctor's name. the only reply he received was a muffled whimper. Sherlock tried the doorhandle. _Locked. _He cursed.

"John, open the door!" There was no reply. "John, if you don't open this door I swear I won't eat for the next three weeks!" There was another cry and the click of the lock. Sherlock smiled briefly at his roommates lack of priorities before pushing his way into the bathroom. John lay curled into a ball on the floor, his face contorted in pain but no outside signs of change. _Good. It hasn't started yet. _Sherlock crouched down and pulled John into a sitting position. He kept one hand on his shoulder to stop him from tipping over and the other on his neck to force John to look at him. "John! John listen to me! You have to fight it!"

"No," he sobbed brokenly. "I can't!"

"Yes you can! You can do this because you are Doctor John Watson! You are stronger than it is! You are the strongest man alive!"

"You don't know… don't know that…" he gasped. He was losing the fight.

"I do! I do!" Sherlock gave John's face a gentle shake, prompting his glassy eyes open. "I know because you're my John Watson who shot a man to save my life. My John Watson that got strapped to a bomb and still only cared about getting me away. My John Watson that puts up with my violin at two in the morning. My John Watson that takes care of me even though I don't take care of myself. The strongest man in the world to put up with the most idiotic. John, that's who you are! That's-"

Sherlock's sentence was cut off by John's crushing lips as he was thrown against the wall. John loomed over Sherlock, his eyes full and hungry, and this time Sherlock was sure. This was his John Watson. John's knee sat between Sherlock's legs, their thighs rubbing together. Sherlock snaked his free hand around John's neck, the other the doctor had pinned to the wall next to his head. Sherlock opened his mouth to John and he darted in, tasting, twisting, exploring until the detective was left breathless. John pulled away ever so slightly. He moved his head next to Sherlock's ear, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin.

"Just like strawberries." Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He shoved the doctor off him, terror shinning on his face. John stood up, an evil toothy grin on his face, and turned his hands over in front of him like he'd never seen them before. "Never had a human body before," he mused. His lust-filled gaze turned to Sherlock. "This is going to be so fun!" It laughed.

"Bring John back!" Sherlock demanded.

"And why would I do that? I'm so much more fun! Don't you want to have fun, Sherly?" The creature took a step forward. Sherlock kicked out wildly.

"Get the fuck away!" He was beyond angry now. That _thing _had taken John away _again_!

"Pfft! I can have more fun out there anyway!" It said, gesturing to the window.

"No!" Sherlock cried as the thing took John's body and hurled it through the glass. That evil sing-song laugh began to fade as it dashed across the yard and away from the house. Sherlock scrambled up and out after it, sprinting through the cold night air. He followed it down the main road and into town. Sherlock thought he'd lost it but then there it was, standing in the middle of the intersection, that same wicked smile on its features. Something didn't feel right. "Give John back!" Sherlock cried.

"Silly, silly Sherly. I already told you." Sherlock blinked. Pain exploded in his stomach. He coughed, the scream stuck in his throat, drowning in the blood welling in his lungs. He looked down. The things forearm stuck out of a growing crimson circle in his middle. It leaned over and whispered into his ear, "I _am _John." I ripped its hand out and Sherlock collapsed. He gave a horridly wet cough and looked weakly at the figure that stood over him.

"John…" He whispered. The doctor's eyes snapped wide, the smile falling from his face. He looked down.

"Sherlock!" he screamed, dropping to his knees and bundling the detective into his arms. "Oh my god, Sherlock! I didn't mean to… Oh god, I'm so sorry!" Tears were streaming down John's face now. Sherlock's mouth opened and closed a few times like he wanted to say something. "Sherlock, don't. For once in your life, please shut up."

"…Not… your… fault… Nothing… your fault…" He wheezed, blood oozing down the side of his mouth.

"Sherlock," John closed his eyes and leant his forehead against the detectives. "Please, _please_ shut up!" John felt the tears on his face and the shaking in his blood-stained hand. His fault, his fault, _his fault_! His mind screamed it over and over again. John opened his eyes. Sherlock's were closed. "Sh-Sherlock?" He didn't respond. "Sherlock!" John screamed. The detective remained perfectly still. John screamed in agony. Pain filled his body and mind. He shakily laid Sherlock's body on the pavement. He stood, his legs threatening to buckle under him as he felt the approaching seizure. Sirens blared in the distance.

John took one last look at his best friend and ran.

**A/N: ****Ohh, I'm so evil! I dearly apologise for the wait and for what I just wrote but what can you do? I kind of really want a fan art of John and Sherlock from that bathroom scene now though...**

**See you guys when I next have time to write!**


	15. Chapter 15: Consternation

**A/N: ****Hello all! So I hope you're not still angry about that last chapter? This one's a little short but if you pick up on the subtle hint as to the next parts of the story, you get a cookie. **

**Have fun and happy clue hunting!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 15: Consternation**

John sat at the base of a tall tree, trying to gain comfort in its strength. Silent sobs shook the doctor's frame as he stared at the ground, his head bowed between his knees pulled up to his chest. It was dark. John had run for hours, fighting down the change that threatened his body.

_'Exercise burns off adrenaline, John,' _he remembered Stapleton telling him. _'If you feel like you're going to change, run. The adrenaline will trigger the transformation. Running will stave it off.'_

And he was right. The effects of the inhibitor had worn off with the surge. His ears and tail had made a reappearance and he was less than pleased to see them. Like his blood-stained hands, they acted as a reminder of what he'd done. An image of Sherlock's still face came unbidden to his mind. _You killed him, _a voice echoed from deep in his mind. _It's all your fault. He trusted you and you killed him! Just like you killed those people in Afghanistan! _More images swirled into his conscious; the bodies of men, woman and children laying broken and bloodied, the smiles of his superiors as they watched him destroy homes and families and the thought that he would kill them next. He remembered the feeling of his hand wrapped around his commanding officers throat and the warmth of blood on his palm as his nails sunk deeper into his flesh. He remembered the screaming-

_NO!_

John slapped his hands onto his head and threw his skull back against the tree, knocking the thoughts from his mind. He couldn't go there again. It had nearly destroyed him last time. He wouldn't do it again. John opened his eyes. His ears instantly flattened against his head. He leapt to all fours and bared his teeth. Before him stood a young man, probably no older than twenty. He was staring at John with a mixture of wonder and fear. There was something about the boy. Something that seemed familiar. He held a noose pole in one hand and a net in the other. _Hunting, _John decided. The boy took a step closer. John growled low in his throat. The boy slowly put down his equipment and held up his hands in a placating gesture. John stopped growling but kept his ears firmly pinned back and his eyes on the boy. He didn't want to be touched. He wasn't in control yet.

"What happened to you?" the boy asked gently, his eyes seeing the blood. John faltered as the memories rushed back in again. A tear rolled down his cheek, his tough demeanour failing completely. He looked up at the boy with sad eyes and opened his mouth to speak.

That was when he felt it.

The tight pressure of a noose slipping around his neck. John roared trying to snap around to see his assailant. The boy cried out for the other man to stop. John fell to the ground as a weight crashed into his back. He tried to stand, to run, but he was still too weak. He growled and roared under the hulking mass trying to free himself.

"What d'ja find here, Kai?" The other man laughed. John kept struggling. _Not again. Please don't let this happen again. _

"Jack, get off him! You're hurting him!" the boy called Kai cried. He sounded almost as panicked as John felt.

"_It's _an animal! And James is gunna be real happy about this one! Never seen nothin' like it before."

"Jack, he's a person! Let him go!"

"You're kidding right kid? This thing's gunna make us rich! Hurry up and help me move 'im. It's a fighter!" John threw all of his weight up, knocking Jack from his back. He tried to bolt into the forest but the man had a firm grip on the pole, wrenching it back. John screamed as it tightened around his throat, the wire cutting into his flesh. He toppled backwards and the last thing he saw was an elbow coming down towards his face.

The first thing he registered was pain. Pain in his stomach and his back and his shoulder. He felt the grogginess of morphine in his head and the heaviness of his limbs. He opened his eyes to the white ceiling above him and his eyes slid around the room lazily. Why was he in hospital? _Mycroft's. John. Stabbed. _Sherlock snapped upright. Unimaginably pain exploded in his abdomen. He felt like he was being ripped in half. The detective collapsed back onto the bed gasping through the white haze that spread across his vision. He looked around again, his mouth clenched shut. Slumped over in the corner was Mycroft. He hadn't seen Mycroft sleep since they were young. Like Sherlock, the elder Holmes wasn't much for normal human behaviour such as sleeping. Sherlock took a deep breath and lifted himself from the mattress again. He'd managed to get one foot on the ground before the pain over-rode his brain and he cried out in agony. Mycroft was at his side in an instant.

"Sherlock Holmes, you imbecile! What do you think you're doing?" He lifted his too light brother back into his bed and hit the call button. Doctors and nurses filed in to the small private room. Sherlock grumpily allowed them to carry out their examinations, only snapping on two occasions. Mycroft would almost have been proud of his brother's self-restraint had he not noticed the way Sherlock's eyes were darting about the room searching for a way to escape. When they all filed out again, leaving strict instructions not to move too much, Sherlock turned to Mycroft.

"Where is he?"

"Sherlock, I've been very worried about you I hardly had time to-"

"_Where is he_?" Sherlock's voice came low and dangerous. He knew very well that Mycroft kept tabs on just about everyone Sherlock associated with.

"I don't know," Mycroft admitted. "He ran out of the city limits. I cannot track him where there are no cameras, Sherlock."

"Then I'll find him myself!" Sherlock threw back the blankets and began pulling himself out of the bed once more. Mycroft shoved him back down.

"Sherlock, you are in no condition to go gallivanting all over the countryside! I will look for John but you must promise not to go anywhere until I have news."

The younger sibling fell back and, for the first time in a long time, Mycroft watched his brother fall apart. Tears streaked over his cheeks and his shoulders shook with long bottled emotions. He turned his blue eyes to his brother and Mycroft saw something there. The sadness and the pain of the last twenty years finally overflowing.

"I can't lose him again," Sherlock cried. "I just go him back. I can't lose him again."

That was when Mycroft understood.

Sherlock truly was lost without his blogger.

**A/N: ****I hope that alleviated some fears and if any of you found the hint, let me know in the comments! I wanna see how many of you got it! This story's going to wrap up in the next few chapters so thank you all for reading. You've been truly amazing! I'll see you guys next time!**


	16. Chapter 16: Presentation

**A/N: ****Okay it's been a while, huh? Sorry guys, been really busy. But hey, if you saw the street parade at the Royal Easter Show, guess which one I was! But aside from that, I'm entering a competition and if I win, you might see a book of mine on the shelves! No worries though, I won't pull an E.L. James, it's a completely original story. So, again, sorry and enjoy!**

**Man or Mouse**

**Chapter 16: Presentation **

When John opened his eyes he wasn't the least bit surprised at what he saw. He'd done this scenario before, many years ago. He remembers waking up and seeing cage walls just as he did now. He remembers feeling the bump on the back of his head and the splitting headache similar to the one he was trying not to aggravate by moving from his current position. So he knew what would come next. The pointing and the laughing and the questions and the pictures. He was an oddity to them, an animal, and the only way to stay safe was to keep to that image.

John turned his head as he heard the door open. The young boy from the forest stepped into the room carrying a plate of raw chicken wings. John scrunched his nose at the smell of the uncooked meat.

"I know," Kai laughed, seeing John's reaction. "I'm going to cook them." He pointed to a barbeque across the room placed just far enough away from the tent walls not to catch them on fire. John cocked his head as if he didn't understand. Kai just gave him an 'Oh really?' face but didn't say anything. He threw the chicken on the plate and turned back to John. He'd expected to see the fear and absent curiosity that he had come to recognize from those that saw him in his natural state. After all, it was part of human nature to fear what they didn't understand. Instead, he looked at John with a mix of amazement, wonder and pity. John didn't know if that was any better.

The doctor pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, growling at the boy. His smile only split wider and he laughed. "I know you can talk, even if the others don't see it. If you were just an animal, why the suit?" John looked down. He'd forgotten about it. The clothes that Sherlock had picked out for him were…

Sherlock.

John felt tears start to sting his eyes. Oh god, what had he done? His best friend, that beautiful, beautiful man and John had killed him. He let out a broken sob and covered his face in his hands, letting his claws dig into his flesh. He now felt the sticky weight of his bloodied clothes and weight of the deed settle into his stomach. He could never go back. He'd killed him. Mycroft would be-

"Hey," Kai called gently. John looked up to see the concern in his eyes. "What's wrong?" John opened his mouth to talk. A door banged open and John snapped his head around. As soon as John saw the familiar black Westwood suit he went rigid and a menacing growl vibrated from his throat.

"Hello, pet!" he sang. "Isn't _this_ a surprise…"

There was no white like that of a hospital room. It was blinding and dazzling and _so sterile. _Sherlock hated it. It was blank and plain. There was nothing for him to deduce, nothing for him to pull apart. _Just white. _He growled in frustration and immediately regretted it, the movement jostling his still healing stomach. He took a few shuddering breaths to ease the sting, opening his eyes when he heard that insufferable snicker of someone who thought they controlled everything.

"Mycroft," Sherlock hissed. "You've found him?" He was disgusted at the neediness in his own voice but he didn't care. _Have to find John, Have to find John, Have to find John!_

Mycroft sighed dramatically. "No, Sherlock, I haven't. I just came to drop off the mail." Mycroft dropped a small stack of envelopes in Sherlock's lap, making him wince at the contact. "And what do you plan on doing once you know where he is? You can barely sit up let alone attempt to fetch the good doctor from wherever he has chosen to hide."

"It's been three days, Mycroft. I can't just do nothing." Sherlock lifted the stack and flicked absently through them, deducing the contents of each one. _Bills, bills, court summons, 'get well' card (Lestrade probably), more bills, and… what's this? _Sherlock pulled a small white envelope from among the stack. _Bohemian. _Sherlock looked up at his brother, his carefully neutral face at complete odds with Sherlock's blatant hopeful fear. He tore the envelope open. Inside was a ticket that read '_Meridian Carnival: Admit One' _and a small note that said '_Here Kitty, Kitty' _in fluid feminine writing. The same blue ink fountain pen as last time.

"I think it's time I was discharged, Mycroft."

**A/N: ****Short, I know, but I'm only anticipating two more chapter's till the end of this little story so I hope you guys have enjoyed it and not hated me too much for the frequent bouts of non-publishing. See you next time guys!**


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